


Last Birthday

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-25 05:51:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4949074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now, as he shivered more violently in the pressing snow, he looked up again at the white ceiling above that trapped him, surprised that the birthday he’d dreaded so would be his last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AZGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/gifts).



> I'm very happy to be back with another short fic, which is a birthday present for AZGirl and inspired by her prompts. AZGirl, I wish you all the best on your special day and hope you had an absolutely incredible birthday. Many happy returns, my friend!

Leather, he’d quickly learned, was a terrible insulator in the winter, taking on the properties of whatever it touched and, when that was frigid air, his doublet turned into a stiff outer layer that had little give and provided even less warmth. It was his first winter away from Gascony and they’d been sent away soon after gaining his commission, leaving him little time to recover financially from his earlier troubles which meant that the warmer clothes he’d had on order had remained in Paris, not having had sufficient time to pay them off before they were ordered to head north. The other thing he’d learned about leather is that once it became damp, it stayed that way, for days on end it seemed, until allowed sufficient time in warm, dry surroundings to leach every drop of moisture from it and become of some use. Not only did the leather get damp, but then everything underneath it did as well and d’Artagnan shivered against the growing wetness at his back as the melting snow seeped into clothes and onto his skin.

 

The mission had been a mixed blessing, taking him away from the heartache that Paris represented after Constance had reiterated her wish to stay with her husband, but the Gascon had lamented the fact that he’d be spending his first birthday since his father’s passing away from the garrison, which represented his new home. He hadn’t shared with anyone the importance of the quickly approaching date, their mission perilous in nature and each man dealing with his own misery that came from the long treks they were forced to complete in the icy conditions. He’d finally resolved to share the significance of the day with his three closest friends, rationalizing that he’d at least have someone to tip a glass with, even if the person he wanted most was already gone. Now, as he shivered more violently in the pressing snow, he looked up again at the white ceiling above that trapped him, surprised that the birthday he’d dreaded so would be his last. 

* * *

_ Earlier that day... _

 

They had left as soon as the first weak rays of sun had appeared. It was a later start than what they were used to, but there was no choice with the conditions they now faced. The area through which they travelled was a collage of grays, the white of the snow on the ground darkening as one’s eye moved upwards toward the horizon, only to be met with a deeper shade of dirty white when gazing at the sky.

 

The gloom was broken only by the occasional glimpse of sunlight that managed to break through, causing the men to squint against the harshness of the light when it reflected from the bright snow. Regardless of how weak or strong the sun’s rays, the cold was never-ending, cutting through their clothes as if they wore nothing at all, leaving them miserable as they cowered within their cloaks and leathers and progressed determinedly forward in silent despair.

 

The item they carried sat snugly within a small bag, which was tucked into Athos’ doublet and nestled against his chest, just to the left of his heart, in a hidden inner pocket he’d had added for just such a purpose. The others had all offered to take responsibility of the item numerous times in the week they’d been travelling but the older man could not bear to put his brothers in harm’s way, understanding that the person acting as courier also bore the greatest risk. They’d been given nothing more but the barest of details regarding their mission, Treville stressing the importance of their success and giving them a look that broached no discussion about the contents of the leather pouch he’d gingerly handed over to his lieutenant.

 

Athos recognized the look in his Captain’s eyes and had worn a solemn expression as he placed the bag into its hiding spot, Treville giving a short nod of appreciation for Athos’ recognition of the gravity of the mission they were being asked to undertake. As they’d ridden out of the city and then gradually into bleaker and bleaker areas where even the trees became sparse, the older Musketeer often felt like the item he carried was burning against his chest, the feeling of it creating a painful counterpoint to the perpetual chill that permeated the rest of his body.

 

Normally, they would find some enjoyment in missions such as these, their hours on horseback spent reminiscing, sharing stories of past adventures, but the bitter cold sapped their energy as well as their morale, with each successive day stretching already taut nerves and further darkening their moods. Today would finally bring an end to their misery with the day’s ride placing them at a small northern village where they were to meet their contact and who would assume from them the responsibility that was attached to their package.

 

They’d managed to find a farmhouse the previous night and had been grateful for the opportunity to sleep inside the barn, the layers of thick, clean hay providing welcome insulation against the frigid temperatures outside. Their outer layers had been removed and left to dry out before donning the still damp items the following day. It hadn’t taken long for the cold to settle in again, cutting swiftly through their leathers which had stiffened once more with the low temperatures and made their inner layers woefully inefficient at keeping the icy winds at bay. Athos had traded worried looks with Aramis, who now rode on the boy’s right, the self-appointed medic having positioned himself there on their second day after realizing how inadequate the Gascon’s clothes were against such temperatures.

 

The marksman was well aware that all of them were suffering, but the young man’s torment seemed deeper than his friends’, the others at least better acclimated to the colder winters and outfitted with thicker layers to better insulate themselves. Aramis cringed momentarily as he reminded himself that the latter was more a matter of circumstance, and that d’Artagnan would have had warmer items if they’d been deployed a few days later; or if he’d won his commission earlier; or if Labarge hadn’t burned his family farm leaving him with debts that had to be paid off. The string of _ifs_ seemed to go on forever and the marksman shook his head at the foolish line of thought. They did not deal in _what ifs_ and there was nothing to be done about the past – they would need to do what they could with what they had and pray they all survived.

 

To that end, Aramis had surreptitiously been redistributing the extra items they carried to the Gascon. On the first day it had been an extra scarf from Athos, which d’Artagnan had been encouraged to wrap around his head, making up for the fact that he still did not wear a hat. Next came a pair of thick woolen socks from Porthos and an extra shirt from Aramis, each additional layer further protecting the boy from the unrelenting cold. Each item had been handed over casually, its owner dismissing it as unimportant and unnecessary, asking d’Artagnan if he would please help them out by putting the item to good use. It was little enough but it seemed to help, if only slightly, and the medic continued to keep an eye on the Gascon to ensure he didn’t topple from his horse, half-frozen from the cold.

 

While Aramis watched their youngest, Athos led the way, doing his best to pick out the safest route to their destination. Porthos was at their rear, acting as a secondary navigator to Athos’ checks of the map he carried, as well as observing their surroundings and staying alert for any signs of trouble. That was one of the well-known challenges of travelling in such conditions – the cold sapped one’s energy and attention, making it easy to miss the subtle signs that might indicate danger ahead. From his position, the larger man spared a moment to examine his friends’ conditions, noting the rigidity of Athos’ back as he determinedly plodded forward. Aramis seemed fine as well, or at least no worse than any of them considering the freezing temperatures, and Porthos was pleased that the marksman hadn’t displayed any signs of distress from his experience in Savoy. d’Artagnan was doing his best to appear unaffected but he could tell that the boy’s back was bowed with misery, hunched over as he tried to gather all his limbs closer in a vain attempt to retain some of his meagre body heat. Porthos knew that the young man was both at the greatest risk and their biggest weakness should an attack appear.

 

As though fate had read his mind, the large man was startled by the sound of a lone shot, the noise of it echoing around them. Porthos’ head moved immediately to scan their surroundings, taking note of the hill on their right that rose sharply, becoming rockier the further his eyes travelled and disappearing against the gray sky. They’d been steadily climbing the past couple of days and he knew that the floor of the valley lay several hundred metres below. To their left were a few pine trees, the only thing hardy enough to thrive in the higher altitude and less fertile ground, until the snow melted in the spring to give way to the multitudes of mountain flowers that would cover the landscape like a thick, colorful rug. The route they travelled bisected the space between mountains and trees and left them completely exposed to whoever was targeting them.

 

A glance at Athos showed that their leader also recognized the precariousness of their situation and was already beginning to spur his horse forward, gambling that they might be able to outdistance their attackers and find a defensible position ahead. Another shot rent the air, Porthos momentarily ducking closer to his horse, his head still up as he kept watch over his friends ahead who had reacted similarly. He gritted his teeth in frustration as he scanned the trees again, searching for a target that he could point out to Aramis who, he knew, was ready to discharge his harquebus as soon as he was given an objective to aim at. Seconds passed in silence, with only the harsh breaths of men and horses indicating the drama that was unfolding. Moments later they were being pursued, two men on horseback emerging from a small grouping of trees to tuck in behind them.

 

"Athos," Porthos called, his voice strong and calm, belying the anxiety he felt. Two men could be dealt with by their force, but it left the question of whether more men waited ahead of them. The older man glanced backwards for a moment, giving Porthos a quick nod even as he checked on d’Artagnan and Aramis, both of whom were keeping pace and seemed fully aware of the danger behind them. One of their pursuers got off a shot, obviously having had time to reload before mounting, and Porthos let out a vile curse as he saw Aramis momentarily sway in his saddle, righting himself almost immediately. d’Artagnan reached an arm out toward the marksman, the latter giving a quick shake of his head and the Gascon’s hand withdrew, Porthos concluding that the ball’s strike must not have been overly serious. Despite that, the larger man’s hands tightened on the reins as he felt his anger and worry rise over his injured friend.

 

Athos had spared another look back and caught Aramis’ momentary waver, deciding in that moment that it would be better to stand and fight. Pulling up hard on his horse’s lead, he brought the animal to a jerky stop, the beast tossing its head to communicate its distress at being so suddenly brought to a halt. Aramis and d’Artagnan were already beginning to slow, but Athos gave a curt shake of his head as he bellowed, “No, keep going. Porthos and I will deal with these two and catch up.” He saw the matching expressions of hesitation on his friends’ faces and hardened his expression in return, letting the men know that he would brook no argument. The two kicked their heels into their horses’ flanks and sped up once more, easily pulling away from Athos as Porthos stopped at the older man’s side.

 

“Stand and fight?” the large man confirmed, one hand already reaching for his pistol.

 

“We deal with them quickly and then catch up to the others,” Athos agreed, his pistol already primed and aimed at the approaching men.

 

Surprisingly, their targets didn’t even flinch and continued at the same breakneck speed toward them, hunching close to their horses’ backs to make themselves smaller targets. Had it been anyone other than Porthos and Athos, the shots would have been impossible, the difficulty compounded by the fact that they were aiming at moving targets. But not everyone had Aramis as a teacher and his years of patient coaching had honed the men’s skills to the point where both had become among the finest marksmen in the regiment; not as good as Aramis himself, but far better than the majority of their brothers-in-arms.

 

The men’s pistols discharged within a heartbeat of one another, the sound once more echoing strangely across the empty space, their would-be-attackers seeming to fall from their horses in slow motion while the beasts themselves startled and faltered, eventually coming to a gradual stop. The Musketeers moved forward slowly, impatient to be reunited with their two friends but needing to know that the fallen men posed no further threat.

 

Athos dismounted several feet away and approached on foot, sword now extended in front of him as he checked first one man and then the other, confirming that neither lived. Indicating his findings to Porthos with a shake of his head, the larger man breathed a sigh of relief as he sheathed his own sword, nudging his horse towards one of the riderless ones and leaning over to take its lead. Athos did the same with the second horse before mounting again, neither man heartless enough to leave the ownerless animals to freeze or starve.

 

They turned their mounts back in the direction they’d previously been travelling, eager to catch up to their friends, when a deep rumbling sound appeared. It began like far away thunder, building to a gentle crescendo until neither man could hear anything else. The Musketeers looked at each other in confusion, having no idea where the ominous sound was coming from as their horses danced beneath them, their anxiety clear in their whinnies. “Bloody hell, what is that?” Porthos finally asked, nearly shouting to be heard and completely at a loss, but concerned nonetheless as the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled with unease.

 

Athos remained quiet, wordlessly scanning their surroundings, his face serious as he looked for the source of the roaring noise. Seconds later it became apparent as they watched a cascade of white rush down the side of the hill in front of them, wiping out everything in its path. Moments later, the sound receded, leaving a terrible silence in its wake as they struggled to understand what they’d just witnessed. Finally regaining his ability to speak, Porthos turned a stricken expression to Athos as he said, “My God, Aramis and d’Artagnan.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite knowing that he needed to rein in his panicked thoughts, it seemed like forever before he managed to gain control of his panting breaths, reason finally asserting itself and reminding him that his life was measured in inhales and exhales, each of which brought him one step closer to death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the wonderful response to the first chapter and for joining me in wishing AZGirl a happy birthday. Hope you enjoy this next part.

Aramis would admit that he hadn’t been paying as much attention to their surroundings as he likely should have been, finding himself increasingly more distracted with d’Artagnan’s condition as the hours passed. The young man had appeared to be in fair health and good spirits when they’d departed that morning, shuddering only momentarily as he donned his cold leathers and then fastened his cloak over top. The marksman had grimaced in sympathy, having already put on his own outer layers but more familiar and accepting of the hardships of soldiering. This was the Gascon’s first northern winter, even Paris turning far colder than what the boy had experienced at home. As a result, he seemed to be constantly cold, seeking out the warmth of the fire in every room they entered, surreptitiously positioning himself as close as possible to ward away the chill.

 

Porthos had snorted when he’d noticed the pattern, commenting to the others that the problem was the young man’s slender build. What followed was an almost continuous stream of food that the larger man pressed on the Gascon, stopping only when d’Artagnan threw up his hands in exasperation and walked away from his friend’s repeated attempts to fatten him up. Aramis had taken a more direct approach, announcing that he knew the finest seamstress in town, and he’d promptly dragged the boy to visit the woman and place an order for several essential items that were needed to supplement his existing wardrobe. The woman had been willing to wait for payment, a courtesy she extended to the charming marksman, and d’Artagnan had nearly had the money saved when they’d been dispatched.

 

Athos, for his part, had watched his friends’ antics with a touch of amusement, sharing their worry for the young man, but knowing that the others had things well in hand – at least until they’d had to depart on their current mission. Having his duty to guide their foursome to their rendezvous, he’d again relegated responsibility for the Gascon’s welfare to their medic, performing his own furtive checks of the boy each evening when they stopped for the night. He hadn’t been overly pleased with what he’d seen, noting the dull eyes and overall weariness that seemed to hang off the boy like a cloak, but Aramis had assured him with a subtle look or a smile and Athos trusted that the marksman would let him know if there was anything more to worry about. The strain of their mission hadn’t helped any and he knew they all felt eminently relieved to finally be on the brink of completing it, trudging across the final miles that would bring them to their appointed meeting place.

 

Aramis had been honest about his assessment of d’Artagnan’s health and, while it was true that there was nothing serious for the others to be concerned with, the Gascon’s overall condition continued to deteriorate and he planned to suggest a two-day rest at their destination in order to recoup some of their reserves before heading back home. A part of his mind had been cataloguing how much food and rest he’d be able to press on the young man before the boy lost his patience and refused, and he’d been unaware of the impending danger until he’d heard the first shot and watched as Athos immediately sped up. The ball that had struck his arm had surprised him, and he’d lurched momentarily, more from the shock of it than the pain – that would come later, he knew, adrenaline masking the seriousness of the injury while they raced to evade their pursuers.

 

When Athos had pulled up short, intending to stand and fight, Aramis felt a surge of guilt, understanding that the decision had been made in part due to the fact that he’d sustained an injury. Sadly, he also recognized that arguing with the older man would be pointless, the firm set of his jaw demonstrating his determination, and Aramis reluctantly kicked his horse back into motion, the Gascon at his side following moments later. They didn’t go far, riding only for a few minutes before, by unspoken agreement, both men slowed their horses and turned to watch for their friends’ return. The silence was disquieting as they waited for any sign of the men’s arrival, and Aramis watched irritably as d’Artagnan fidgeted in the saddle, wanting to do the same but firmly clamping down on the longing to do so.

 

When the sound of pistol shots reached their ears, the Gascon jerked badly, his face wearing an expression of fear that Aramis knew would be mirrored on his own. d’Artagnan swallowed thickly as he breathed out, “I’m going to ride back to meet up with them.” It was a poor decision to further divide their numbers but Aramis’ need to check on their friends was just as strong and he gave a mute nod as he steeled himself to wait for the men’s return.

 

He watched as the young man began to ride away, his attention disturbed moments later as a deep rumbling sound pierced his thoughts. The noise was growing and he noticed that d’Artagnan had stopped, clearly having heard it as well and now looking around for its source. They stood that way for several long seconds, separated by a mere hundred metres as they scanned their surroundings for clues about what was happening.

 

Aramis’ eyes were drawn to his left, the mountainside seeming to be alive with movement and he stared at it in wonder, not comprehending the significance. Realization dawned with cruel clarity as his gaze shifted to his friend, the young man’s back turned to the danger that raced toward him. Opening his mouth to shout a warning, d’Artagnan’s name caught in his throat as the rush of snow thundered toward the Gascon, pulling him from view immediately. Aramis stared at the spot where d’Artagnan had disappeared, his mind unable to accept what he’d just seen, but when the sound faded and the snow settled, there was no trace of the boy or his horse, the ground between them perfect and untouched as if they’d never been there.

* * *

Athos and Porthos allowed themselves only a moment of shock before digging the heels of their boots into their horses’ flanks and urging the animals forward as quickly as possible, the need to see their friends whole and hale powerfully intoxicating and overriding rational thought. Neither man voiced their concerns over what they might find, unwilling to tempt fate should she choose to make their fears a reality. As they drew nearer to Aramis’ location, the first thing they noticed was the vast expanse of pristine ground, unmarred by any signs of passage with even the few trees that had dotted the landscape now erased from existence. The sight was breathtakingly beautiful until one considered that anything that had been in the path of the avalanche of snow would have been utterly unable to resist being caught in its clutches and swept away.

 

Aramis was approaching, having nudged his horse into motion as soon as he’d seen the men appear, a surge of relief making him momentarily dizzy before he pushed the feeling aside and forced himself to focus. The two Musketeers seemed rooted to the spot, no doubt taking in the incredible devastation before them, the results of which left the space between them perfectly bare, the newly disturbed snow appearing soft and downy and almost inviting, belying its deadly nature. “Athos, Porthos,” the marksman said, pulling the two from their thoughts. “You’re alright.”

 

The statement carried a hint of a question and the larger Musketeer hurried to assure his friend of their health. “We’re both fine, Aramis.” The marksman nodded, the vice around his chest easing momentarily until Athos spoke.

 

“Where’s d’Artagnan?” the older man asked, his eyes still roaming across the field of white, his expression a mix of quiet worry and enforced calm.

 

Aramis’ eyes clouded and he dropped his head for a second, the image of the young man being swept away making his heart speed and his breath catch. When he lifted his head he saw both men watching him carefully, their raw need to know what had happened clear on their faces. “The snow,” Aramis began, his voice faltering as he sought the words to explain. “He didn’t see it and I didn’t warn him in time,” he broke off again, struggling to continue as he battled the guilt he felt at not having been able to prevent d’Artagnan’s fate. “It was so powerful and it carried him away,” he finished, his face turning automatically in the direction the snow had taken down toward the valley below.

 

Athos’ and Porthos’ heads turned to face the same direction, looking for any sign of the young man and, distressingly, finding none. A shuddering intake of air from Athos had the men looking at him, “He’s not dead.” The words were spoken were such confidence that Aramis had to close his eyes against the hot tears that threatened while Porthos turned away, unable to face his friend’s grief-stricken expression. “He’s not dead,” Athos repeated, louder this time and his tone demanded attention, both men returning their gazes to the older man’s face. Gathering himself, Athos explained, “I have heard of this before and it’s possible to survive. The real enemy will be time and, if d’Artagnan’s is alive, then we must find him and dig him out quickly if he is to remain that way.”

 

The first flicker of hope appeared in Aramis’ eyes and Porthos sat up straighter in the saddle, the conviction in Athos’ statement filling him with renewed strength. For a moment the gloom lifted, only to return as the marksman’s faith faltered and he asked, “But how can we possibly find him in all of this?”

 

Porthos’ mind had already begun to grapple with the same question and he critically observed the field of white as he ordered, “Show me where he was when the snow hit.” Aramis obediently moved several feet away until he was fairly certain he was in the same spot where d’Artagnan had disappeared. The large man used Aramis’ position as a starting point and then began to move, following the path the snow had taken. Dismounting, he unsheathed his sword, jabbing it downwards into the white beneath his feet.

 

With a confused expression, Athos queried, “What are you doing?”

 

“By my guess, this snow’s several feet thick and the boy might be buried a ways down. I’m using my sword to try and find him,” Porthos replied, taking a step before repeating his earlier action.

 

“Wait,” Aramis said as he slipped from his horse, cringing momentarily as his injured arm was jarred. “Place your sheath back on your sword, otherwise you’ll likely kill him when you find him.”

 

With a contrite look on his face, the larger man did as the marksman suggested, continuing to test the snow in a careful pattern as Aramis and Athos joined him several feet away. “How’s the arm?” Porthos asked, continuing to work but needing to know that his friend wasn’t putting himself at risk.

 

“It’s fine,” Aramis said dismissively, noting the hard look thrown his way by Athos. “Really,” he stated, “it just grazed me. I promise you can look at it once we’ve found d’Artagnan.” He received a pair of grim nods in return as they focused on the blanket of white beneath their feet which hid their friend from sight.

* * *

The shivering that had racked his body earlier seemed to be abating, a fact for which d’Artagnan was incredibly grateful, the continual shudders having twisted the spike that had taken up residence in his skull and jarring his sore midsection. He reflected on his tumultuous trip while caught up in the snow, recalling impressions of falling, being tossed around aimlessly and occasionally pummeled by hard objects that had been caught up in the same tide of white that had captured him. The ride he’d undertaken had seemed to last forever before coming to a swift and sudden halt. He’d been unaware for several long moments afterwards as his mind tried to recover from the dizzying experience and, when his breathing had finally slowed and he’d managed to open his eyes, he was startled to find only darkness surrounding him.

 

The discovery had sent a jolt of adrenaline through his system and he’d attempted to move but found himself almost completely immobilized, the exception being his right arm which was pressed against his chest and allowed his hand a small range of motion near his head. He’d raised the hand carefully, quickly encountering the wet, cold, immovable substance a few inches above his face, and had reached the terrifying conclusion that he was trapped beneath the snow and had somehow been fortunate enough to have a small air pocket around his head.

 

The realization should have been welcome but it spurred a second rush of adrenaline as fear rose in his chest with the knowledge that he was buried alive. Despite knowing that he needed to rein in his panicked thoughts, it seemed like forever before he managed to gain control of his panting breaths, reason finally asserting itself and reminding him that his life was measured in inhales and exhales, each of which brought him one step closer to death. By the time his breathing returned to normal, he felt lightheaded and the insistent ache in his side had flared once more, keeping his inhales shallow as he did his best to contain the pain.

 

He wondered if his friends were looking for him or if they believed him dead. He couldn’t recall whether Aramis had been looking in his direction or not, both of them consumed with identifying the source of the deafening noise they’d heard. When it had first appeared, d’Artagnan had been vaguely reminded of the night his father had been killed, the thunder having been just as loud and bringing a similar sense of foreboding that he’d been unable to recognize until after tragedy had struck. He was fairly certain that the marksman would have been spared the same unfortunate fate, having been far enough away from the path of snow that had raced down the mountainside, but what of Athos and Porthos? Was it possible that Aramis was now torn between looking for him and their other two friends? Worse yet, might he be grieving the loss of all three?

 

Ruthlessly, he pushed the morose thoughts away, having no choice but to have faith that his brothers would find him, the alternative of suffocating or freezing to death too morbid to consider. Numbly, he noted that the dual pains in his head and side were fading, a comfortable lethargy beginning to take the place of his previous distress. A part of him recognized that it was not a positive change of circumstances, but the other part, the part that had panicked and ached with the multitudes of ills his body had suffered, welcomed the detachment from the rest of his body. He floated for a time, comfortably numb, before pulling himself back from the brink of unconsciousness, dragging his eyes open with effort.

 

The sight that met him was the same, as it had been since he’d initially woken trapped beneath the snow, but something seemed different. Reaching a hand shakily to his face once more, half-frozen fingers probed clumsily at his cheek and it took several seconds to realize what he was feeling – water. The snow directly above his head was melting from the heat of his exhales, causing moisture to drip onto his face, cooling almost immediately and further freezing his skin. Awkwardly, he scraped at the ceiling of white above him, scraping his fingers against the cold surface in an effort to open up the space around him. After having bits of snow fall onto his face several times, he gave up, allowing his hand to fall back onto his chest and breathing heavily with the small exertion, completely unable to tell whether his labours had improved his situation or not.

 

Closing his eyes, he reached out his mind to inventory his body, forcing himself to stay calm despite the fact that he couldn’t feel the majority of his limbs and torso. That was the one thing about the snow and frigid temperatures – they were an enemy to man and, without proper protection from the elements, he knew that his body would succumb just as surely as the spring would come and erase all traces of the tomb that currently encased him. His body felt heavy and the desire to sleep was almost overwhelming; it would be so easy to allow his mind to drift away and give in to the futility of his situation. He had no concept of time, but instinctually knew that he had little enough left before his friends rescued nothing more than his cold, lifeless shell.

 

The thought of his friends brought the hint of a smile to his frozen lips, the images of his brothers’ faces warming him from within as they called to him, their grinning, comforting expressions giving him a renewed sense of contentment that had been lacking since he’d been caught in the onslaught of rushing snow. The men seemed to be calling to him, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to get closer and he unknowingly frowned at the realization. As the scene continued, his friends’ expressions changed, shifting from happiness at seeing him to worry and fear, and he struggled to understand what would upset the men so. As he tried to comprehend, the faintest sound reached his ears and he could have sworn that someone was calling his name. The feeling was fleeting though and, try as he might, darkness was pressing at the edges of his awareness. With a last look at his friends’ concerned faces, he exhaled softly and allowed himself to drop into the black.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The three men who mounted appeared to have aged several decades, their joints stiff and their movements slow after the gruelling work of searching through and then shifting the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the cliffies in the first couple of chapters. Hopefully the end of this chapter will provide a gentler stopping point. Enjoy!

None of them commented on the amount of time that had passed since the avalanche, yet all of them were painfully aware of its passage, their desperation appearing in each frantic strike of their swords through the packed snow. All of them breathed heavily with exertion and a detached part of Aramis’ mind worried at the sweat that now slicked their bodies, dampening their clothes from within. It was unwise to put themselves in such a position, the frigid temperatures too dangerous and causing their bodies to lose precious heat they could ill afford to lose as the cloth turned icy against their skin; but none of them cared, their sole focus on finding their missing friend.

 

The marksman’s arm twinged with every downward thrust of his sword. He’d used his left arm for a while before switching back to his injured one when he realized that his left lacked the strength to drive the steel as far down through the snow as he liked. He knew he’d pay for his decision later but he steadfastly ignored the red drops that stained the white ground around him and pressed on. Several feet away, Athos and Porthos mimicked his actions, their faces serious and absorbed with feeling the ground beneath their feet, alert to any changes in density that would indicate the presence of a body.

 

Several minutes earlier they’d lost precious minutes when Porthos’ sword had struck something buried beneath the snow and they’d wasted time in unearthing it, revealing d’Artagnan’s dead horse. The discovery was doubly cruel, reminding them that the Gascon had little time left and that there was a strong likelihood that they’d be recovering his lifeless body rather than rescuing their friend. Despite the scarf that Athos wore covering his face, Aramis had seen the man blanch as he’d turned back to their task with renewed determination.

 

The seconds inexorably ticked by, Aramis beginning to lose hope as they moved further away from the spot where the young man’s horse had been found. Although he continued to mechanically test the snow around him with his sword, his heart was already grieving as the belief that d’Artagnan had perished asserted itself and would not let go.

 

“Here!” Porthos’ cry interrupted the marksman’s morose thoughts and his head snapped up to look at the larger man who’d already fallen to his knees and was now using his main gauche to dig at the snow. The hardness of the ground was another fact that Aramis’ addled mind could not comprehend, moving to fall to his knees next to Porthos, and adding his own efforts to dig through the snow that had so quickly compacted and turned solid beneath their feet.

 

Athos was there as well but he stood still, chest heaving as his body tried to recover from the exertion of the previous frantic minutes, and he seemed to come back to himself momentarily as he placed a gloved hand on Aramis’ shoulder and gently stopped the man’s agitated digging. The marksman’s eyes flitted to his friend’s face and then returned to look down at the snow, noting the telltale drips of red that Athos had no doubt seen. Aramis leaned back heavily on his heels, resigned to watch as Porthos attacked the spot where he’d felt something beneath the snow, the air around his face misting as the heat of his panting exhales met the frigid air around them.

 

The moment seemed to stretch on forever, with the only movement being Porthos’ quick and powerful thrusts, one hand chopping at the snow while the other scooped it away. Abruptly, he stopped, staring into the hole he’d created before looking up to catch Athos’ eye. The older man was trembling and Aramis didn’t know if it was due to the cold or worry over their youngest, but it was clear that he would not be able to contain his weak hold on his self-control much longer. Porthos must have sensed the same as he finally found the breath to speak, “I’ve found a leg.”

 

The announcement was enough for them to fall into action once more, Athos joining them down on the snow-covered ground as Porthos directed their efforts, offering his best guess as to the location of the young man’s head. They dug in silence, moving more carefully now lest they hurt the Gascon with an ill-placed dagger thrust.

 

"Oh, God," the soft words fell from Athos’ lips, further muffled by the scarf across his face, but they were enough to get both men’s attention and they immediately paused in their efforts as they waited for the older man to say more. Athos’ eyes were firmly locked on the trench he’d managed to create and what little they could see of his face gave no indication of whether his discovery was good or bad.

 

Porthos threw the marksman a meaningful look and Aramis immediately struggled to his feet, pulling Athos up with him and stumbling a few steps away while the larger man took Athos’ place. The two men watched as Porthos looked first into the space that Athos had cleared and then as he reached a hand down. Many long seconds passed and, when Aramis could no longer contain his impatience, he hissed, “Porthos.” The word carried the heavy question that they all needed answered but the large man only withdrew his hand and gave a short headshake.

 

“Don’t know,” Porthos replied, “he’s too cold to tell.”

 

Athos strode forward, once more dropping to his knees as he began to scoop more of the snow away, his single-minded focus on freeing their youngest no matter what they might find. Porthos joined him and began clearing the young man’s torso, reasoning that they’d need to uncover his entire body before being able to move him, alive or not. Aramis felt his limbs trembling and found himself unable to move, the combination of too much adrenaline, too much energy exerted, and too much blood lost finally taking their toll. Although he didn’t slow his movements any, Porthos seemed to sense his friend’s condition and he gruffly ordered, “Sit down before you fall down.” Sparing a glance at the marksman’s unmoving form he added, “We’ll let you know as soon as we’re able to tell anything.”

 

Aramis gave a loose nod that went unseen by the larger man, Porthos’ head already bent down again to focus on his task. The marksman allowed his shaky legs to crumble and he managed a controlled collapse to the ground, his eyes never leaving the tableau unfolding before him. Once more, time seemed to stand still and then, before he knew it, they’d cleared away enough snow to access d’Artagnan’s head and upper body. Athos stopped then, giving the marksman a look filled with desperate need and Aramis crawled forward, removing a glove from one hand and leaning down to place it above the Gascon’s mouth. He counted the seconds, lingering for one and then another, forcing himself to wait patiently for the warm puff of air that signalled that d’Artagnan still lived.

 

He was almost ready to give up and face the horrific deed of telling Athos that his protégé was dead, when the faintest hint of air brushed at his fingers and he paused, almost afraid that he’d imagined the sensation. He sat for several more heartbeats and felt it again, the softest tickle of air against his rapidly cooling hand. Pulling his arm back, he leaned his face forward instead, eyes firmly fixed on the young man’s mouth as he tensely waited for the telltale cloud of air that would indicate an exhale; moments later his patience was rewarded. Eyes shining brightly, he lifted himself back up as he announced, “He’s alive.”

 

The declaration pushed new strength into their limbs and they fell into a coordinated rhythm as each man worked to uncover more of their friend’s body, painfully aware that this was only the first hurdle they needed to overcome in order to see their friend safely returned to them. As soon as the Gascon’s torso was free, Aramis took over and began issuing orders, “Athos, position yourself behind him. We need to get him up off the freezing ground as soon as possible.” The older man moved swiftly to obey, gently lifting d’Artagnan’s upper body and placing himself behind it so that the young man was half lying on his mentor’s lap.

 

“Porthos, how much longer before you have his legs free?” Aramis asked, already doing a mental inventory of their remaining dry clothing and calculating what they could spare in order to re-dress the Gascon in something dry.

 

In between quick, panting breaths, the larger man replied, “Couple more minutes.”

 

Aramis gave a satisfied nod before turning and striding towards the horses. They’d moved a significant distance from where the animals had been left and the marksman was breathing hard by the time he reached them, the snow making it difficult to walk with his boots periodically sinking into the snow and forcing him to expend further energy in pulling them loose. Wasting no time, he tied the horses’ leads together before mounting and prodding the animals forward in order to return to his friends’ sides.

 

His dismount was anything but graceful as his legs threatened to buckle when his feet touched the ground, and he had to steady himself momentarily against his horse’s side, holding on to the saddle while he locked his knees. Neither of his friends seemed to have noticed his moment of weakness and he gave a silent prayer of thanks that the two hadn’t been distracted from d’Artagnan.

 

The sight that greeted him was pitiful, Athos bowed nearly in half in an effort to both keep his protégé off the cold ground and protect him further from the wind that blew around them. The scarf was pulled away from the older man’s face and he had his mouth pressed close to the Gascon’s ear, his lips moving with words that were too quiet for the marksman to discern. One hand was wrapped around d’Artagnan’s bare one and Aramis absently noted the fact that one of the young man’s gloves had been lost. Porthos sat in silent vigil, his chest still heaving as his heart raced with exertion, his eyes fixed on his two friends hunched in the snow. Both men were shivering now that they’d stopped moving and, as though reminded, Aramis’ body gave an involuntary shudder at the thought. “We need to get someplace warm,” he blurted out.

 

Porthos gave him a slight look of surprise but then nodded evenly as though the marksman’s statement went without saying. Aramis realized that perhaps it did, and that he might also be affected by the cold, his mind moving more sluggishly than normal. The thought spurred him to action as he resisted the urge to shiver again, forcing himself to take a step towards Athos and the boy. “We need to get him into dry clothes.”

 

The older man glanced up at the marksman’s words, “Gather whatever we have while Porthos and I undress him.” Aramis gave a small dip of his head in reply, turning to their saddlebags to start pulling out clothes. Behind him, Porthos had shaken out his cloak, laying it on the ground to provide a modicum of protection from the snow and, between the two of them, he and Athos managed to pull the Gascon up and position him on top of the garment. The older man went down on his knees next to the young man, tugging at the clasps of d’Artagnan’s cloak and pulling it away before starting on the doublet next. Porthos was doing the same with the Gascon’s bottom half, removing first his boots and then his breeches, wrapping his cloak over partially dry socks.

 

Aramis stumbled back, pleased with his friends’ progress as he handed the men the few items he’d been able to scrounge; Athos’ shirt, Aramis’ braies, and a woolen sweater that belonged to Porthos. It was precious little but would have to suffice, the men having nothing more to spare with their own clothing soaked through with sweat and snow. Clamping his jaw down against his chattering teeth, Aramis voiced a question while Athos and Porthos dressed their youngest, “How far?”

 

The older man paused for a moment, knowing they needed shelter and that their situation was tenuous, each passing minute bringing them closer to death if they didn’t warm up soon. “An hour,” he answered tentatively, offering his best guess while at the same time hoping he was correct, for all their sakes. Both men nodded – they could do an hour. It would be unpleasant to be sure, but they would do it if for no other reason than to make sure they got d’Artagnan to safety.

 

The three men who mounted appeared to have aged several decades, their joints stiff and their movements slow after the gruelling work of searching through and then shifting the snow. Each of them keenly felt the effects of the cold, their energy further sapped by the trembling that racked their tired bodies with ever-increasing frequency.

 

Athos rode with d’Artagnan in his arms, wrapping them in both his and Porthos’ cloaks in a vain attempt to prevent the young man from deteriorating further. Behind him was Aramis, swaying gently in the saddle, thinking vaguely that they hadn’t even checked the boy over for injuries in their rush to get him warmed and find refuge. Porthos took up their rear, the additional horses following behind, and he prayed that Athos’ estimation of their location had been correct before the harsh environment that surrounded them tried to claim another of their group.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos caught Aramis’ eye from where he stood as he stated confidently, “We’re not that lucky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great reactions to this story so far and apologies for not yet replying to those of you who left a comment on the last chapter. Real life reared its ugly head today and it was either post the next chapter or reply to reviews...you can see which one I chose. Hope you enjoy!

They plodded on toward their original destination, the mission’s objective unchanged and the village where they were to meet their contact also representing the nearest shelter. Athos sat as though in a fugue and he’d relinquished the lead position to Porthos when it became clear that he was unable to concentrate on navigating the landmarks in order to find their way. Pressed against his chest sat d’Artagnan, the young man desperately cold and quiet, two facts that made the worry swell in Athos’ chest until he was certain he would choke on its intensity. When Aramis and Porthos had first lifted the Gascon up, the older Musketeer had wrapped the boy in both cloaks and his embrace, willing some of his own flagging warmth to permeate d’Artagnan’s flesh which resembled that of a corpse more than a living, breathing person. He would not voice his concern to the others but knew that they without a doubt understood, having witnessed the strong bond that had formed between Athos and the younger man.

 

His previous experiences with men lost to winter temperatures numbered less than a handful, Treville limiting their time away from the city whenever possible during the frigid months, but what he knew was enough to scare him – badly. It wasn’t uncommon for those who’d fallen asleep to succumb to their weakened states, simply drifting away between one breath and the next, without ever waking. The idea that the Gascon might be slipping away from them in such a fashion was both appealing and terrifying, allowing d’Artagnan to avoid a painful recovery but stealing him from their company and damming them to a future without his presence, a thought that Athos was unable to bear.

 

The death of a brother was not a new experience, and they’d all encountered losses at one time or another during their service to the King, but for some reason the thought of losing d’Artagnan was different and Athos was certain that he would shatter into a thousand pieces if it came to pass. He understood that Aramis and Porthos would remain at his side no matter what but, this time, he doubted that their presence would be enough to prevent him from drowning in barrels of wine, stopping only when the permanency of death finally erased the Gascon’s loss from his broken heart. He experienced a momentary flash of guilt at the realization but it wasn’t enough to make him consider an alternative future: if d’Artagnan died, Athos would soon follow.

 

The older man was pulled from his thoughts by Porthos’ deep voice, the larger man looking at him with concern. “Athos,” the larger man repeated, waiting for the older man to provide some type of coherent reply.

 

“Yes,” Athos croaked, surprised at how dry his throat had become while they’d ridden.

 

With a wary expression, Porthos seemed to come to a decision, “There’s a house up ahead. We’ll head there and seek shelter.” The older man didn’t argue and offered a slight dip of his head in agreement, Porthos giving a return nod and spurring his horse forward once more. They’d already ridden the hour that Athos had estimated and there was still no town in sight. Given how cold all of them were, and the state of their obviously muddied thoughts, it would be prudent to seek the nearest refuge and complete their mission later.

 

They descended from their current position into a small bowl-shaped valley, the landscape providing a natural windbreak for the home’s residents. The house was set slightly apart from the rest of the surrounding buildings, which included a storage shed of some sort and a barn, with a small but functional paddock at its rear. Porthos slid from his horse and he threw over his shoulder, “I’ll take care of the horses. You head inside and get d’Artagnan sorted.”

 

Aramis gave him a look that suggested he was about to argue, but as Porthos inclined his head towards Athos and d’Artagnan, the marksman softened his expression, saying instead, “Be quick, Porthos. You need to get into dry clothes, too.” Porthos’ lips quirked fondly and he gave a nod of acknowledgement as he gathered up the horses’ leads.

 

The marksman swung stiffly from his mount and made his way to Athos’ side, preparing to receive the Gascon as the older man lowered the young man down. Between the two of them, they managed the task well enough and soon had the insensate Musketeer hanging between them as they made their way to the front door. Athos pounded on it and they waited for nearly a minute before it opened a crack, revealing an old, weathered woman who stared at them with an intense expression. Aramis summoned the most charming smile he could manage as he tipped his head to the lady. “Madame, I am Aramis. My comrades and I are Musketeers and we are in need of somewhere warm where we can tend to our injured man.” He paused, expecting the woman to stand aside and allow them in. When she instead continuing observing them with an air of distrust, he continue, “May we please come in?”

 

The woman looked ready to refuse when the door was pulled open wide, a man standing there with a welcoming smile. “Please, come in, you must be half-frozen from the cold.”

 

Aramis gave a smile of thanks in return as they moved inside, the change in temperature from the outside making the men shiver as the warm air across their cold faces made their skin tingle. “Didn’t realize how cold I was until we came in here,” the marksman remarked, Athos grunting in reply. “Monsieur, is there somewhere we can lay our friend?”

 

The man considered for a moment before replying, “Yes, there’s a room at the back of the house you can use.”

 

Athos was eyeing the roaring fire in the front room and he stood still as he questioned, “Does it have a fire?”

 

The owner looked confused for a moment before saying, “No, the only fireplaces are in here and the one in the kitchen. Why?”

 

Understanding, Aramis answered, “It’s important that our friend is as close as possible to the heat as he was lost in the snow for quite some time.”

 

The man nodded agreeably as he turned to the older woman, “Mother, please fetch some extra blankets for these men.” She looked ready to disagree but, with a low harrumph, moved off to do as she’d been asked.

 

Aramis dipped his head at the gesture, “Our thanks, Monsieur…” His tone was questioning and the man understood immediately, offering up his name.

 

“Phillipe Barnet. This is my family’s home although there are only three of us now. My son is in the barn tending to the livestock,” the man replied.

 

“Ah,” Aramis began, “You should know that we travel with a fourth and he’s likely settling our horses.”

 

Barnet began nodding enthusiastically as he reached for his cloak, “I understand. I’ll go and let Andre know that your friend poses no danger.”

 

As the man exited, Madame Barnet reappeared, her hands full of thick woolen blankets. “Thank you, Madame. If I could trouble you to place one in front of the fireplace.”

 

With a sour expression, the woman did as she’d been asked, depositing the remaining pile a few feet away before retreating to the kitchen.

 

“Lovely woman,” Aramis commented facetiously as they gently laid the Gascon down on the makeshift pallet. Once unburdened, they took a moment to discard their own sodden cloaks and doublets, hanging them on a hook by the door to dry. Then, they proceeded to efficiently undress the Gascon, revealing pale skin mottled by patches of ugly bruising.

 

A low whistle cut through the air as the door to the house opened and Porthos rejoined them, Aramis and Athos still mesmerized as they took in the young man’s appearance. “Hard to believe that’s from a tumble in the snow,” the large man remarked.

 

“Snow peppered with all matter of debris,” Athos corrected softly, reminding them that the rush of white that had swept d’Artagnan away had contained much more than just partially frozen water. As Porthos drew closer to the fire to remove his outer layers, the older man looked to Aramis and asked, “Where do we begin?”

 

The question roused the marksman and he slipped into medic mode as he began rolling up the sleeves of his damp shirt. Athos’ eyes stared pointedly at the patch of red that stained the medic’s shoulder and, although Aramis didn’t look up from his task, he knew at once what held his friend’s attention. “Later,” he said dismissively, needing to make sure the young man would be alright first, even as he felt his own energy flagging. He crouched down next to his patient, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to warm them before placing one on the Gascon’s chest and another at his throat. The touch revealed the deep cold that had seeped into the boy’s body, making his heartbeat sluggish and reminding the medic that warming d’Artagnan would take top priority. Draping a blanket over the young man’s lower body, Aramis began his physical examination of the Gascon’s upper half.

 

Probing fingers discovered a sizable lump at the back of d’Artagnan’s head and, with Athos’ help, Aramis was able to confirm that the skin hadn’t split although he had no doubt that the injury would be a painful one. As the medic’s hands left the young man’s head, Porthos retrieved a pillow from somewhere and gently placed it underneath the injured man’s head. Continuing downwards revealed two ribs that gave way on the Gascon’s left side, the spot also representing the site of the deepest bruising on his chest. Sitting back on his heels momentarily, the medic let out a sigh as he said, “If the most serious injury we have to deal with is a couple of broken ribs then I’d say we got off lucky.”

 

Porthos caught Aramis’ eye from where he stood as he stated confidently, “We’re not that lucky.”

 

Taking his friend’s words to heart, the medic motioned to Athos to cover d’Artagnan’s torso while he moved on to the young man’s lower body. Pulling the blanket off the Gascon’s legs, he inhaled sharply at the bruising and swelling that was beginning to blossom in earnest around d’Artagnan left knee. Pressing around the kneecap, and then gently manipulating the leg, caused the still unconscious man to grimace in pain. Noting the reaction, Athos asked, “How bad?”

 

“Bad enough,” Aramis replied, certain that the limb was dislocated and would be intensely painful to correct. “It’s best if we warm his body first and then fix his leg.”

 

“Won’t that hurt more?” Porthos questioned uncertainly.

 

“Yes,” Aramis admitted with a look of regret, “but I’ve heard of instances where tending to major injuries when the body is this cold has stopped men’s hearts.” His expression turned pleading as he said, “I don’t want to risk it.”

 

Porthos bent forward to grasp the medic’s wrist momentarily and the marksman took comfort in the touch, understanding that his friends supported his decision. Drawing a shaky breath, Aramis said, “We’ll need to warm his body slowly and watch for any signs of distress.” Clamping down on his body’s desire to shiver, he added, “Also, it’s important that we get out of these wet things and into dry clothes.” It seemed that the medic was about to continue when a quiet voice interrupted.

 

“Aramis,” he fell silent and met Athos’ gaze, the man dipping his eyes momentarily to the patch of red that stained the medic’s shoulder. “You’re bleeding all over the floor; Madame Barnet will be upset.”

 

Aramis was tempted to roll his eyes at his friend’s comment, Athos being the only man who could disguise concern under the pretence of propriety. With a thin smile, he looked to their third, “Porthos, would you do me the favour of retrieving a bandage from my bag and wrapping my arm.” With a pointed look at the older man, he continued, “Athos is concerned about blood stains on the floor and he’ll be busy getting me some water and brandy.” To his credit, Athos didn’t dispute the marksman’s statement and moved away immediately to collect the requested items, while Porthos dug through Aramis’ saddlebag, having brought all their things inside once he’d untacked the horses.

 

Porthos guided Aramis to his feet and walked him to the closest chair, pushing him to sit. With a quick glance at his friend, Porthos ripped at the torn shirt, widening the hole left by their attacker’s ball. He frowned as he uncovered the hole in the meaty part of the marksman’s upper arm, disproving the earlier statement the man had offered regarding the severity of his wound. Manipulating his friend’s arm carefully, Porthos revealed the exit wound and raised his eyebrows questioningly, daring Aramis to make another excuse. The marksman had the good grace to look slightly abashed and merely gave a one-sided shrug as if to say, “I guess it was worse than I thought.”

 

Porthos wasn’t at all fooled and he began to scrub away at the worst of the blood, waiting for Athos to return with the requested supplies. “This will need to be properly cleaned and stitched.”

Gritting his teeth against the discomfort of the large man’s actions, Aramis replied, “I know.”

 

As Athos entered the room, carrying the bottle of brandy he’d manage to pry away from the lady of the house, the front door opened and Barnet and his son entered, the latter carrying a bucket. As the room’s occupants turned towards him, Phillipe explained, “We’ve finished with the horses and thought you might have need of fresh water.” He motioned to the bucket that Andre was bringing closer, “Our well is deep and never fully freezes.”

 

“Monsieur, we are once more in your debt,” Athos graciously thanked the man, not only for the water but for his foresight in anticipating their needs.

 

Barnet nodded in reply as he and his son doffed their outerwear before moving toward the back of the house, “I’ll have mother prepare some food.”

 

When they were alone again, Athos went about the task of removing as many of his damp clothes as decency allowed while Porthos cleaned and stitched Aramis’ arm, much to the latter man’s chagrin. After the new stitches had been doused a last time in brandy and covered in clean linen, the large man helped the marksman undress as well. Once they had all divested themselves of their wet clothes, they gathered as close to the fire as possible, each of them with a blanket around their shoulders as they had nothing dry left to change into. Aramis fussed by checking d’Artagnan’s breathing and the temperature of his skin, making a mental note to strap the boy’s ribs once his condition improved. In the meantime, Porthos uncovered the young man’s legs, eyeing the grossly swollen knee with sympathy. “You sure we can’t do anything about this yet?” he asked.

 

Aramis and Athos both looked over at the larger man’s comment and the former man swore softly under his breath. “Dammit, how did I miss this?” the medic asked himself, tugging at his curls with one hand. The two men followed the medic’s gaze, landing on the Gascon’s feet which held ten very white, almost grayish looking toes.

 

As understanding dawned, Porthos’ expression turned compassionate as he offered, “Maybe it had something to do with the blood loss.”

 

Aramis gave him a scathing look in reply, communicating clearly that he didn’t want to be placated. Dropping the blanket from around his shoulders, the medic strode from the room and into the connecting kitchen where he stood and scanned his surroundings, the larger man following quickly in his wake. Moments later his eyes had landed on the item he’d been searching for. “Bring me that wash basin filled with warm water,” Aramis commanded before returning to the other room where he stared at the boy’s frostbitten feet.

 

The woman of the house wore a look of disdain as Porthos moved to do as the medic had asked, stating haughtily, “We wash our dishes in that, you know.”

 

Barnet interjected before anything more could be said, “Mother, it’s for a good cause. Monsieur, there is water heating over the fire. Help yourself to as much as you need.”

 

Porthos filled the basin partway with hot water, intending to add the cold water from the bucket to it until it reached a satisfactory temperature. When he returned to the sitting room with his burden, he caught sight of Athos holding d’Artagnan’s shoulders while Aramis was considering the badly deformed joint. Taking a steadying breath, the medic muttered, “This will be most unpleasant.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The snow, he realized, must be collapsing around him, bringing an end to his nightmare. As much as he’d railed against death, he could not deny its allure, promising an end to the pain as he went back to sleep and slipped away from the mortal world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's continuing to read, comment and leave kudos. Hope you enjoy this next part.

With help from the other two men, Aramis had attacked d’Artagnan’s dislocation with venom, pushing and pulling until it had stubbornly slipped back into place, leaving all of them breathing hard especially after the Gascon partially woke to scream in pain before passing out once more. The medic had wanted to wait a while longer until the boy had properly warmed up and they’d had a chance to ice the damaged area, but the discovery of frostbitten toes had necessitated immediate action so that the Gascon would be able to bend both legs and immerse his feet in the basin of warm water. As it was, the joint was still grossly swollen, the muscle and tissues surrounding the knee sore and strained from the abuse they’d suffered.

 

Afterwards, the three friends found themselves utterly exhausted from their ordeal and they’d taken a moment to don their shirts and breeches before falling asleep in various locations around the room. Athos was on the floor with a hand on the Gascon’s chest, while Aramis and Porthos ended up draped over the room’s only furniture, a high back chair and a narrow settee. Barnet had ventured in near dinnertime to check on the men and had smiled at the touching scene before dipping a hand into the basin which still warmed the young man’s damaged feet. Unknown to the men, he’d snuck back in and added more hot water before backing away and leaving the Musketeers to rest.

 

Athos was the first to wake and he cracked an eye to see their host’s retreating back, satisfied that the man meant them no harm. He moved his hand upward to cup d’Artagnan’s face and was pleased to find the skin warmer than before, although still cooler than he liked. Despite their improved situation, the young man’s face showed signs of discomfort even though he was asleep. Gingerly pulling himself up to his feet, he felt every sore and tired muscle from their impromptu digging and he acknowledged silently to himself that he was not as young as he used to be. As he gently stretched his back, he noticed a pair of brown eyes shining with humour and he purposely adopted a stern frown which seemed to do nothing to dissuade his friend.

 

Moving over to the man, Athos asked quietly, “You see something that amuses you?”

 

Aramis schooled his features into a neutral expression, stifling the grin that threatened as he carefully cleared his throat, “No, nothing.” Switching his gaze to where d’Artagnan lay instead, he asked, “How is he?”

 

Athos gave a half-hearted shrug, his expression darkening with concern as he replied, “Seems warmer, but he still hasn’t woken.” The medic’s features blanched at the comment and the older man knew his friend felt guilty at the excruciating pain he’d caused earlier, which had cut through the layers of unconsciousness to pull a pained cry from the Gascon’s throat. At the time, Aramis had ignored it and continued to tend the injured limb, but both Porthos and Athos knew how difficult it had been for the medic to know he’d inflicted such pain. Placing a hand on the marksman’s shoulder, Athos quietly reminded him, “It had to be done. Even d’Artagnan would agree that he’d rather endure a few moments of discomfort rather than the loss of his toes.”

 

“He’s right,” Porthos’ voice confirmed from the chair where he still sat, giving the medic a compassionate but firm look meant to convey the full conviction behind his words. Sitting up straighter, he continued, “And d’Artagnan wouldn’t approve of you feelin’ guilty about it now.”

 

Aramis’ shoulders slumped and his head dropped for a few seconds, the other two remaining silent as their friend processed their words. Finally, he lifted his head and some of the weight seemed to have lifted from him. He offered them a ghost of a smile as he said, “Thank you.”

 

Neither Athos nor Porthos commented, brushing off the moment since they knew Aramis was likely to feel embarrassed if it persisted. Instead, Porthos pushed to his feet and crossed to the fireplace, carefully examining their injured friend’s features. “Looks like he’s hurtin’.”

 

The others joined him and Aramis nodded, “Nothing I can do for that until he wakes, which is probably something we should try to accomplish sooner rather than later.”

 

"Excuse me,” a voice said from the other side of the room. Barnet had appeared and was standing at the boundary between the kitchen and the sitting area. “I thought I heard voices,” he explained as he smiled. “We’ve kept some stew warming for you as I thought you might be hungry after your earlier troubles.”

 

Porthos’ stomach grumbled at the thought of food, none of them having realized just how much energy they’d expended that morning as they’d battled the elements. Their host’s grin grew at the sound and he motioned to them to follow. Athos hesitated, his eyes straying again to the young man and Aramis gave Porthos a meaningful look. Understanding that this was not a conversation that the older man would want to have in front of a virtual stranger, the large man clapped their host on the back as he guided the man from the room, talking about how much he was looking forward to a home-cooked meal.

 

When they’d left, the medic spoke, “Athos, he’s doing as well as can be expected. He seems to be resting comfortably and you won’t be helping anyone by running yourself into the ground.” Placing a hand on his friend’s back, Aramis went on, “Come, we’ll take a few minutes to eat and then see if we’re able to wake him.”

 

The older man gave his protégé another pained look, as though it physically hurt him to be separated from the boy. The day’s events played through his mind as a series of disjointed pictures, one image and then another appearing unbidden in his head. The cold, grayish dawn, in which the temperature had been so low that it had made the breath catch in his chest as he’d inhaled the first few lungfuls of chilled mountain air. The crack of the shot across the open space accompanied by a rush of adrenaline that had wiped away all weariness and sharpened his senses. The roaring thunder of the snow as it raced down the mountainside, mercilessly sweeping away everything in its path. The painful throbbing in his chest when he found out that d’Artagnan might be dead. The discovery of the Gascon’s body and the relief that the boy still lived, making his knees weak and threatening to deposit him on the ground. It had all happened in the span of a few hours and it was almost too much, Athos’ mind still fogged by exhaustion and worry.

 

Understanding his friend’s conflicted state of mind, Aramis exerted a small amount of pressure on the small of the man’s back and Athos took a last, longing look at their injured friend before allowing the medic to lead him into the kitchen. 

* * *

The meal had been surprisingly tasty and, even it if hadn’t been, Athos was certain that it would have made little difference, certain that Porthos would have finished off a third serving regardless. He and Aramis had been somewhat more restrained and stopped after their second helping, but it was hard to argue with their bodies’ need for fuel. He’d been grateful that Aramis and Porthos had carried the majority of the conversation, handling the pleasantries of finally introducing all of them by name and providing a vague explanation of their presence in the region. Barnet was a gracious host and he didn’t press, merely inviting them to stay for as long as they needed until the young man was well enough to travel. The marksman had nodded noncommittally offering some excuse about being expected in the village the following day.

 

To everyone’s relief, Madame Barnet was largely silent, communicating her disapproval through the occasional glares she shot in their direction. The Musketeers ignored her and she must have grown weary of the game, retreating to her bedroom soon after she’d dished out their second portions and set down another bottle of wine. When they’d finished, Athos stood and excused himself to return to d’Artagnan’s side, their host venturing the question he’d wanted to ask since they’d arrived. “What happened to your friend?”

 

Porthos replied, “He was caught in the snow coming down the side of the mountain.”

 

“Ah,” their host nodded, taking a sip from his glass. “Then your friend was indeed fortunate. It happens two or three times each year and carries away anything in its path. We’ve learned over time to recognize the signs and avoid the unstable areas once the snow arrives.” His expression serious and his eyes compassionate, he went on, “Few who have been caught up in the rush are found before the spring. How did you manage it?”

 

Aramis gave a small, proud grin as he answered, motioning to his friend with a hand. “Porthos came up with the ingenious idea of using our swords to test the snow. Still, there was such a vast area to search…” he trailed off, remembering again the fear that had gripped him when he’d believed d’Artagnan to be lost to them.

 

“We got lucky,” Porthos proclaimed softly, understanding just as well as Aramis the chances that they’d actually find the young man still alive.

 

The marksman seemed to shake himself from his morbid thoughts as he stood, “I should go see if I can convince our young friend to wake. Monsieur, may I trouble you for some hot tea in the event I’m successful?”

 

“It’s no trouble at all,” Barnet replied.

 

“Go on, ‘Mis,” Porthos suggested. “I’ll bring the tea when it’s ready.”

 

The medic threw the large man a smile of appreciation as he added, “Please make it extra sweet.” At Porthos’ nod, Aramis walked back into the front room, frowning when he took in the worried expression on Athos’ face. The older man was sitting on the floor next to the Gascon who still had his eyes closed but was beginning to toss his head restlessly, the motion accompanied by the occasional low sound of distress. Slipping into caretaking mode at once, Aramis settled on the young man’s other side, reaching a hand out to test the temperature of the boy’s skin as he asked, “How long has he been like this?”

 

“Since I came back,” Athos replied, a cautiously hopeful look on his face now that Aramis had arrived. “Does this mean he’s ready to wake?”

 

“Mmm,” Aramis hummed noncommittally, continuing his examination as he checked the temperature of the Gascon’s torso and then his extremities. When he reached d’Artagnan’s feet, he dipped his hands into the basin and, after feeling the cool water there, motioned to Athos to help him pull the young man’s feet out. As they were withdrawing them, Porthos returned and moved swiftly to place the cup he carried onto a small table before pulling the washbasin out of the way. Using the end of one of the blankets, Aramis and Porthos gently dried the boy’s feet, the medic nodding in satisfaction at their improved condition.

 

Recognizing his friend’s expression, the larger man confirmed, “He’ll be able to keep them.”

 

Aramis gave a short nod, letting out a low sigh of relief that their injured friend would not be crippled as a result of their earlier misadventures. Athos had retaken his spot at d’Artagnan’s head and was now carding a hand through the young man’s hair in an effort to calm him. The additional attention he was receiving had done nothing to settle him and yet the boy’s eyes remained stubbornly closed. Catching his friend’s eye, Aramis said, “Talk to him, Athos. See if you can persuade him to join us.”

 

Athos shifted and then paused for a moment before glancing at Aramis who gave a nod of encouragement. The older man continued on with his original intentions and adjusted his protégé’s position until d’Artagnan lay with his head and shoulders against Athos’ chest. Wrapping an arm around the young man, Athos tugged at the blanket that had pooled near d’Artagnan’s waist, bringing it up and tucking it underneath the boy’s chin. He began to rub the Gascon’s arm with his free hand, leaning over so he could speak softly into the young man’s ear, trying not to sound too needy but acknowledging privately that he was pleading with d’Artagnan to wake.

 

Aramis’ examination had brought him back to the Gascon’s dislocated knee and he was eyeing it with trepidation, worrying his lower lip as he considered the swollen and misshapen joint. As if reading his mind, Porthos offered, “Snow to bring down the swelling?”

 

The medic’s face lit up with a genuine smile at his friend’s perceptiveness and he withheld a shiver as he replied, “Would you mind?”

 

Porthos gave him a look of mock disbelief as he rose and said, “’Course not; be right back.” Aramis watched as he tested the dampness of his cloak and doublet, the look of disgust on the larger man’s face clearly conveying the fact that neither garment had sufficiently dried. With a resigned sigh, he threw the cloak over his shoulders and pulled on his boots before heading outside, carrying the wash basin with him so he could fill it with snow. The brief gust of cold wind that entered made the marksman’s skin prickle uncomfortably with the chill. Shaking off the sensation and telling himself that he wasn’t actually cold, he moved up to the Gascon’s face, unhappy to find the young man’s eyes still closed.

 

“Seems that he’s not yet ready to stop being stubborn,” Athos stated softly as he looked up at the medic, his tone expressionless but his eyes conveying the deep fear that he held for the boy.

 

“Let’s see if we can’t convince him otherwise,” Aramis replied in an equally neutral tone. He tried patting the Gascon’s face, gently at first and then with more force, but the young man’s only reply was to turn his head away as he attempted to burrow deeper into his mentor’s hold. The medic threw the older man an amused grin that normally would have had Athos rolling his eyes in mock exasperation but there was too much anxiety right now for him to engage in their normal teasing.

 

Aramis shifted his hand to d’Artagnan’s earlobe, pinching it firmly and then releasing it as he waited for a response. Once more, the Gascon refused to wake, although he did let out a low moan of discomfort. Repeating the action, the medic coaxed the young man to return to them, sensing that they were getting close.

 

On some level, d’Artagnan’s mind recognized the voices of those around him just as he’d felt the discomfort of what was being done to his body, and he wanted nothing more than for it to stop so that he could return to the bliss of unconsciousness. His journey to awareness had begun with the awful sensation of feeling cold and his body had shuddered involuntarily, awakening an overall soreness in his limbs. As he’d shifted uncomfortably, he felt the fire burning in his leg and had groaned in misery at the unrelenting throb that seemed to pulse with the beat of his heart.

 

As his heartrate quickened in reaction to the pain, the spike in his head seemed to twist and inch further into his fragile skull and he’d rolled his head in an effort to relieve some of the unrelenting pressure he felt there. The ache of his head had pulled another whimper of pain from him and this time the breath he drew to give the sound life awakened the sharp sting of broken ribs and he groaned in distress.

 

As he lay trapped in his suffering, a memory tugged tenaciously at his brain, insisting that he needed to wake and not give up on his friends. The thought was a strange one and it took several long moments to process, until his mind was flooded with disjointed images of being swept away by an unrelenting wall of snow. He was trapped, buried alive, and would die if not found by his brothers! The panicked thought had him gasping with fear and pain until something settled comfortingly against his head. The snow, he realized, must be collapsing around him, bringing an end to his nightmare. As much as he’d railed against death, he could not deny its allure, promising an end to the pain as he went back to sleep and slipped away from the mortal world.

 

An annoying patting was attempting to pierce the black veil that was trying to surround him and he turned his head away, this time feeling something warm and soft against his cheek. The sensation was a comforting one and he calmed momentarily until he felt a sharp pain, which pulled another sound of distress from his chest. He’d been so close to drifting away and now his chance to fall into the black was being ripped from his grasp and d’Artagnan moaned again at the injustice.

 

"d'Artagnan," a voice penetrated his fugue and he was confused when it was repeated, as was the sharp pain he’d felt earlier. He tossed his head weakly and tried to lift a hand but it was trapped and he vaguely recalled the pressing weight of the snow.

 

“Why won’t he open his eyes?” someone asked, and the Gascon frowned momentarily in confusion, recalling the moment when he’d thought his friends were calling his name.

 

Another voice answered, “I think he’s trying. Give him time.” The words were followed by an uncomfortable sensation along his sternum and he tried to swat at it, only to find that his hand was still trapped.

 

“Calm down, d’Artagnan,” the first someone said, a hint of amusement in the tone and he felt the pressure on his hand momentarily increase and the warmth of the hold remained. Unknowingly, he let out a soft sigh as his body relaxed, and above him, Athos mirrored the action as his protégé began to quiet. Aramis returned to patting the Gascon’s cheek as the older man coaxed, “d’Artagnan, open your eyes.”

 

Every fibre of his being felt weighed down by exhaustion, and his body was infused with a deep ache. He wanted nothing more than to drift away but the voice was important and he felt the urge to comply no matter how poorly he felt. Putting every ounce of his strength into the effort, d’Artagnan prised open his eyes, the lids wavering at half-mast as he fought against the urge to allow them to close. A blurry form took shape above him and the Gascon blinked slowly several times before discerning Athos’ concerned face. Licking dry, parched lips, he found the breath to speak, “Athos? Did the snow get you too?”

 

The young man’s words were soft but the effect was startling, and the older man glanced to Aramis immediately with an expression of puzzlement. Placing his hand on the boy’s cheek again, Aramis grasped the boy’s chin and shifted his face to look at him, “d’Artagnan, we found you. You’re not in the snow.”

 

d’Artagnan blinked sluggishly before he breathed out, “Trapped…buried alive.” The Gascon’s eyes closed and Athos could feel how the young man’s head settled more heavily into his lap as he raised his own anguished eyes to look at the medic.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The men traded blows, each strike of steel echoing across the empty space around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great feedback on the last chapter and sorry (kind of) for worrying you with d'Artagnan's confusion. Hope you enjoy this next bit.

“What?” Athos managed, uncertain what to think of the Gascon’s apparent confusion.

 

“It’s alright, Athos,” Aramis soothed, encouraged by d’Artagnan’s few moments of wakefulness. “Let’s give him a chance to get his wits about him. Remember, he’s been unconscious for most of the day and he’s suffered some fairly serious injuries. It’s not surprising that his thoughts are somewhat addled.”

 

Athos seemed unconvinced but nodded haltingly, seeming to pull the young man a bit closer to his chest, although it was difficult to know if it was meant for his comfort or d’Artagnan’s. The door opened, allowing another gust of outside air to enter, and Porthos stomped his feet a few times before looking over at his friends. He paused in his actions as he took in Athos’ deflated appearance, his gaze moving questioningly to Aramis who explained, “d’Artagnan woke briefly but is still quite confused.”

 

The larger man gave a small dip of his head in understanding and strode over, setting down the washbasin which had been filled halfway with snow. “Want me to do this?” he asked, inclining his head towards the Gascon’s leg.

 

“No,” Aramis replied as he took in the layer of white that had been deposited on his friend’s cloak. “You should hang that to dry before you catch a chill.”

 

Porthos let out a low huff of laughter as he moved to do as his friend had suggested, “I don’t get sick; you know that.” It was a favorite topic of theirs and the larger man steadfastly asserted that he was too strong and healthy to succumb to a mere cold. Aramis, of course, took great pleasure in reminding him that although Porthos rarely fell ill, on the few occasions when he did, the results were dire indeed.

 

The medic merely rolled his eyes but refused to rise to the bait as he uncovered d’Artagnan’s left knee and began carefully packing snow around the swollen joint. Aramis knew the cold would be intense and cause the young man pain before its numbing effects became apparent and, as he’d expected, the Gascon began to squirm weakly in Athos’ arms. The marksman gave the older man a smirk as he said, “I was hoping that would happen.”

 

Aramis and Porthos settled beside their two friends as Athos once more began urging the young man to wake and this time, he was rewarded after less than a minute. As d’Artagnan opened his eyes, he mumbled lowly, “Hurts.”

 

Athos gave the medic a pointed look to express his unhappiness with the situation, but Aramis only shrugged, knowing that the discomfort was necessary if the Gascon wanted any chance of being able to bend his leg in the next day or two. Looking back down at his protégé, the older man soothed, “It will pass; just breathe through it.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a jerky nod as he tried to comply, his lids slowly beginning to close. Seeing that the young man was about to fall asleep again, Aramis intervened. “d’Artagnan, open your eyes,” he ordered sharply, making the Gascon startle and pulling a small hiss of pain from him. Athos threw his friend another reproving look but the medic ignored him, knowing that they needed to get the boy to drink before he was allowed to rest. He motioned a hand toward the cup that Porthos had brought earlier, and the larger man rose to retrieve it. “You need to drink this.”

 

Porthos knelt at d’Artagnan’s side and brought the cup to the young man’s lips, tipping it forward slowly so the liquid trickled out. The Gascon managed only a couple mouthfuls before he tried turning his head away, and the large man withdrew the cup so the tea wouldn’t spill. “Too sweet,” d’Artagnan breathed out, a grimace of disgust on his face.

 

Aramis grinned at Porthos, satisfied that his friend had done as he’d requested, “That’s a good thing, d’Artagnan and you need to drink it all.” Porthos moved the cup forward again but the Gascon refused to open his lips until Athos leaned down and whispered something in the young man’s ear. d’Artagnan’s expression was mutinous but his mouth opened and he struggled to swallow every drop that was offered. When the cup was finally pulled away, he glared at his friends, but they only smiled indulgently, happy that he seemed to be improving.

 

Finally taking notice of their surroundings, the young man asked, “Where are we?”

 

“The house of Phillipe Barnet,” Aramis supplied.

 

Knowing that the medic’s answer would be unsatisfactory, Porthos added, “It was the nearest shelter we could find and they were good enough to take us in.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a small nod, as he eyes slowly scanned his friends, still not remembering all the details of what had happened but recalling his worry about the other men. “Safe?” he asked.

 

Athos gave his hand a squeeze of assurance as he confirmed, “Yes, we’re safe.” The answer was the one that the Gascon had needed to hear and he allowed his eyes to close, sleep claiming him almost immediately.

 

The older man looked to the medic, the question clear in his expression, and Aramis was happy to reassure him, “That was a very good sign and I believe he’ll be fine.” The relief in both his friends’ faces had Aramis grinning for a moment before a large yawn caught him by surprise.

 

Porthos smiled in return and clapped a hand gently on his friend’s back as he said, “Looks like d’Artagnan isn’t the only one who needs to rest.” Despite Aramis’ protestations that he was fine, the larger man chivvied him back to the settee and covered him with a blanket, not having missed the marksman’s still too-pale features. Satisfied that Aramis was settled comfortably, Porthos returned to Athos’ side and asked, “You want me to sit with him for a bit?” Unsurprisingly, the older man shook his head no and Porthos sat down on d’Artagnan’s other side, a warm hand encircling the Gascon’s ankle. 

* * *

Porthos and Athos had taken turns watching over their injured friends, removing the rapidly melting snow and replacing it several times throughout the night in an effort to bring down the swelling around d’Artagnan’s knee. The Gascon had woken once and Porthos had ventured into Aramis’ medical bag to make a cup of the pain draught the medic favored, helping the young man to drink it so he could get some more rest. In the early morning hours, both men were awake, and Porthos asked the question that had been playing on his mind all night as he’d watched Athos grow more and more withdrawn.

 

“We’ll have to leave them today,” he stated, knowing without a doubt what his friend would say. Athos gave a small dip of his head in agreement. “You’re worried about leavin’ them alone,” he went on, again certain of the older man’s thoughts. “Talked with Barnet for a while yesterday and the town’s not too far. We should be able to make it there and back in a few hours. They’ll be alright.”

 

Athos drew in a deep breath as he prepared to reply, “I should have never divided our group. If I hadn’t ordered them to ride ahead…” he trailed off, looking down at d’Artagnan who’d eventually been shifted to lie flat on his back on the floor.

 

“You made the right decision,” Porthos stated confidently. “Aramis was hurt and the boy was half-frozen.”

 

“But, the package,” Athos began before the larger man interrupted him.

 

“Isn’t worth dying for,” Porthos finished.

 

Athos gave him a hard look, “Don’t let the King hear you talking like that. Those words are dangerously close to treason.”

 

Porthos gave a low snort before he answered, “The King don’t know what it’s like to be out here freezin’ to death to make sure his _package_ gets delivered. Out here, we only have each other.” He softened his tone as he continued, “Besides, you never would have decided to stand and fight if you thought for one second that the package was at risk.”

 

Athos’ lips quirked slightly at his friend’s insight and he gave a small dip of his chin in acknowledgement. Seeing his friend’s guilt ease, Porthos leaned back and observed Aramis asleep on the settee, “Give him another hour or two?” The older man’s gaze joined Porthos’ and he nodded, recognizing how difficult the previous day had been on the medic and that he’d valiantly pushed through despite his injury. The large man sighed softly as he leaned back to wait, “He’s not gonna be happy about this.” 

* * *

“I’m really not happy about this,” Aramis stated as he watched his friends donning their outer layers. “But, I understand.” The medic had woken an hour earlier and, after receiving a pleasantly positive report on the Gascon’s condition, had been advised of the two men’s plans to complete the mission while he and d’Artagnan stayed behind at the house. “You’ll be careful,” Aramis said, knowing well that each time one of them rode out, could be the last.

 

Porthos gave a fond grin as he answered, “We’re always careful.” The marksman smiled despite himself, finding comfort in their familiar banter.

 

As Athos strapped on his weapons, he pinned the medic with a serious expression, “It’s possible that there are more of the group who tried to stop us the other day. Don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

 

Aramis gave the older man a cheeky smile as he said, “Really, Athos, how much trouble do you really think me capable of finding?” When Athos remained silent, he tried again, “Besides, I’m certain that no one would dare try and attack us here; if they did, Madame Barnet would simply glare them into submission.” His last words had their desired effect as Athos’ expression turned disapproving, Aramis’ grin only widening in response.

 

Porthos rolled his eyes at his friend’s antics but understood that the marksman was just as worried about them, as they were about the two men they were leaving behind. It was a less than ideal situation, but the mission would not wait and d’Artagnan would be unable to ride for at least another couple of days. With a quick wave, Porthos followed Athos outside into the cold and they trudged over to the barn where they made quick work of tacking the horses.

 

In addition to the map that Athos still carried, they’d confirmed their route with Barnet before setting out and were confident that their destination was less than an hour away. Despite the fact that it would be easier on their horses if one followed the other’s tracks, they rode side by side, Porthos unwilling to be caught unaware like last time, especially since there were now only two of them to defend against an attack.

 

They’d reloaded their pistols before setting out, grateful that their powder had remained dry rather than turning into a damp mess from the persistent snow they’d endured. Their preparations served them well as, a half-hour into their journey, they spotted riders approaching, the men a growing speck of gray against the white backdrop of their surroundings. Porthos pulled up on his reins as he glanced at Athos, waiting for the man’s orders even as his right hand drifted towards his pistol. They stood watching for several long seconds as the riders neared, neither man’s eyes moving away as they tried to discern whether or not they were at risk. Their answer appeared a moment later as the sound of a shot broke the stillness around them and Athos made his decision, kicking his horse into a trot as he headed directly for their attackers.

 

Porthos wasted no time in following, drawing his pistol as he leaned close to his horse’s back, wanting to present as small a target as possible. Beside him, Athos had mirrored his actions and both men’s expressions were intense as they focused on the coming skirmish. They were within shooting distance in the span of a few heartbeats and, as though they’d coordinated it, both men slowed their mounts just enough so the motion of their horses wouldn’t throw off their shots. Their pistols discharged within seconds of each other and two men fell, leaving two more who would need to be engaged with steel.

 

Porthos headed for the man on the left, pulling his sword from its scabbard as he turned his horse towards his target. His opponent still had his pistol up and he loosed his shot, the Musketeer shifting suddenly to one side in an effort to escape unscathed. When he sat back up in the saddle, he was pleased to find no sign of the ball’s passage and he grinned mirthlessly as he allowed a battle cry to escape his lips, swiping at the other man with his sword and successfully unseating him. Throwing a leg over his mount’s head, Porthos slipped quickly to the ground where his opponent was waiting for him, his own sword up and ready to fight.

 

The men traded blows, each strike of steel echoing across the empty space around them. Porthos was surprised to find himself fairly evenly matched, the other man’s strength enhanced by a skill that the Musketeer knew only came from formal training, making him wonder exactly who they were fighting. He reached back for his main gauche, already feeling his energy flagging as sore muscles were forced to work after being abused the day prior and given insufficient time to rest. The man advanced quickly as Porthos’ left hand moved to his back, managing to thrust his sword into the Musketeer’s side before nimbly dancing back and out of the way.

 

Porthos felt the blade’s entry despite having jerked back at the last moment, minimizing but not avoiding the damage it had caused. Completing the action of drawing his dagger, he continued the fluid motion, bringing his arm forward and releasing the blade so that it embedded itself firmly in his attacker’s neck. The man’s expression momentarily turned from satisfaction to confusion, before being replaced by the blankness of death as he dropped limply to the ground, his lifeblood staining the snow around him.

 

Placing a hand to his side, Porthos turned to look for his friend, finding Athos still engaged against his own adversary and noting the same slowed reactions in the older man that he’d just experienced. He closed the distance between himself and the dead man, pulling his dagger free and wiping it on the man’s cloak before moving to assist Athos.

 

The older Musketeer had been holding his own but, like Porthos, had recognized his opponent’s skill at once and knew he was not fighting any ordinary bandit. On a normal day it would not have mattered, Athos’ skill still superior, but he’d had little sleep the previous night and his muscles still ached with fatigue, leaving him at a definite disadvantage, and it took all his efforts to keep his attacker from gutting him. He’d gotten a glimpse of Porthos, and knew the larger man had been victorious, and he sent up a silent prayer of thanks that he’d soon have help as he lifted his blade once more, parrying a blow aimed at his head.

 

Another thrust of his adversary’s blade had him giving ground again, the cold leather of his boots slipping and causing him to stumble, his sword dipping momentarily as he fell to one knee. The mistake cost him and he felt the bite of the other man’s blade as it slipped into his shoulder, forcing him to clamp his teeth shut against the cry of pain that wanted to escape. He saw the satisfaction on his opponent’s face as the man withdrew his blade before lifting his arm for a killing strike, but the blow never landed, the man’s eyes clouding over as Porthos’ main gauche claimed another victim, this time embedding itself into the man’s back. The large man pulled the blade free and pushed the dying man over with one foot, paying him no further attention as he moved forward to check on his friend.

 

“Athos, you alright?” he asked, eyeing the spot where he’d seen the blade enter Athos’ flesh.

 

The older man was panting heavily and mustered a short nod, looking down for a moment at his shoulder before grimacing with the blossoming pain of his wound. He lifted a hand to Porthos and was grateful for his friend’s strength as the man pulled him to his feet, the two stumbling tiredly back to their horses. As Athos’ breath returned, he asked, “Injuries?”

 

Porthos wore a look of disgust as he admitted, “A poke to the side.” At Athos’ questioning eyebrow, he elaborated, “Barely nicked me.”

 

“Nevertheless, we’ll bandage it before we ride on,” the older man stated, too familiar with his friend’s propensity to downplay his injuries, something, he reflected, they were all guilty of doing far too often. They pulled bandages from their saddlebags, Aramis having insisted they be well prepared, just in case. Porthos had been correct in his statement that the blade had barely pierced his flesh, and the wound was already beginning to clot. Athos’ injury on the other hand, was definitely more serious, and Porthos pressed at it firmly for several minutes before the flow of blood abated and he was able to bandage it.

 

By the time he’d finished, Athos had a sheen of sweat on his pale face and Porthos was decidedly concerned, “You fit to ride?”

 

“No choice,” Athos replied as he prepared to mount.

 

“We could always turn back,” Porthos offered, but the look on the older man’s face told him that wasn’t an option. With a sigh, the larger man watched as Athos pulled himself up, following him as soon as he believed the older man was stable. Clamping his mouth closed against the argument he wanted to make, Porthos followed Athos as they rode on toward their destination.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a look of satisfaction, the man holstered his pistol and walked away, leaving the insensate Musketeer to lay where he’d fallen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the continued support for this story. I think there's only another chapter or two left before this one wraps up. Hope you enjoy this next part!

d’Artagnan had continued to sleep for another hour after Porthos and Athos had departed, and Aramis busied himself by tidying the room after himself and his friends, not wanting to give Madame Barnet any further reason to dislike them. When he’d finished, the Gascon still slept and he took the time to brew another pain draught, knowing it had been several hours since the one Porthos had given the boy during the night. When he could resist no longer, he positioned himself next to the young man, carefully lifting the edge of the blanket away from d’Artagnan’s left leg so he could see the injured joint. To his relief, the knee looked vastly improved over the previous day and, except for the substantial bruising, looked almost normal in size.

 

Letting the blanket drop, Aramis was pleased to find two brown orbs watching him and he smiled widely at seeing the Gascon awake. Scooting up to the young man’s head, he asked, “d’Artagnan, how are you feeling this morning?”

 

The young man licked dry lips before replying, “Like I was pummelled by a dozen men.”

 

Aramis’ smile faltered for a moment and he gave a slow nod of his head, “Yes, I can imagine it would feel something like that. How about something for the pain?” d’Artagnan seemed to consider it for a moment and the medic added, “It’s not quite as strong as the brew you had last night and shouldn’t make you sleepy.” The relief was clear on the young man’s face and Aramis silently congratulated himself for correctly guessing the reason for the boy’s hesitation as he reached for the cup.

 

d’Artagnan began shifting, trying to lift himself to a sitting position, and Aramis placed a hand on one shoulder to stop him, “It’s not a good idea for you to move around too much. You’ve broken some ribs and I haven’t had the chance to strap them yet.”

 

The Gascon grunted but didn’t stop his efforts, “I know, I can tell, but I don’t want to lie here anymore.” With a sigh of exasperation, the medic adjusted his grip, helping the young man shift against the wall and into a seated position. d’Artagnan was breathing heavily, his eyes closed against the pain by the time he’d accomplished the feat, but when he met Aramis’ gaze again, there was a look of satisfaction on his face. The medic wanted to be mad at him but knew that it was the Gascon’s fiercely independent streak asserting itself and there was no use fighting against it. Instead, he handed his friend the cup and sat quietly while the boy emptied it.

 

When he’d finished, d’Artagnan placed the cup on the floor next to him and looked around, asking, “Where are Porthos and Athos?”

 

Aramis barely managed to keep from flinching as replied evenly, “They’ve gone to finish the mission.”

 

The change in demeanor was nearly instantaneous as d’Artagnan’s expression shifted from weariness to anger, “You let them go by themselves?”

 

The medic’s face hardened imperceptibly at the implied accusation as he answered, “d’Artagnan, you know as well as any of us that the mission must be completed and Athos takes his duty very seriously, as do we all.”

 

The marksman’s words struck home and the Gascon immediately felt contrite for trying to suggest that Aramis had somehow been responsible for the men’s absence. Giving a careful nod, he admitted, “Sorry, you’re right, of course.”

 

The medic’s expression softened at once as he queried, “Head still hurt?”

 

A rueful grin spread across d’Artagnan’s face as he replied, “Maybe a little.”

 

Happy that the tension from moments before seemed to have dissipated, Aramis suggested, “Perhaps you should lie down again.”

 

“No,” the Gascon protested. “I’d like to get up for a while if I can.”

 

The marksman looked hesitant but he recognized the need for the young man to test his physical limits, even if only for a few minutes. “Alright,” he agreed, “but let me bind your ribs and knee first.” d’Artagnan bore the process stoically, even though Aramis could tell that it had caused the young man’s aches to flare up again, despite the pain medication that still coursed through his veins. Once the medic had finished, he fussed with d’Artagnan’s clothes for a few minutes, pretending to check if they were dry while the Gascon composed himself. Although Aramis was against the young man donning his breeches, d’Artagnan eventually got his way and was soon sitting in the high back chair fully dressed.

 

The young man raised his right arm to the medic, indicating his desire to be helped to his feet and, with a swallowed sigh of frustration, Aramis extended his hand and gently hauled the Gascon up. It took several long moments for the room to stop spinning but, when it had, d’Artagnan looked at his friend and asked, “How’s your arm?”

 

The marksman gave the boy a surprised look as he answered, “You remember that?”

 

d’Artagnan gave a slight shake of his head as he said, “I’d forgotten until I saw you wince when you helped me up.”

 

Smiling at the young man’s astuteness, he gave a small shrug, “It’s fine. Porthos cleaned and stitched it yesterday.”

 

The Gascon leaned heavily on his friend as he forced his sore leg forward, determined to walk a few steps and breathing heavily enough to make his broken ribs protest. “Have you changed the bandage today?” he asked, attempting to distract himself as he shuffled forward once more.

 

“Don’t worry,” Aramis replied as he supported the young man. “I’ll take care of it once you’re done.”

 

Letting out a pained gasp as his weight settled once more on his injured limb, d’Artagnan offered breathlessly, “I could do it for you.”

 

Unhappy with the fine tremors that he felt in the Gascon’s slim frame, Aramis decided that it was time to put an end to the young man’s folly and steered them toward the settee. “Alright, let’s just get you settled over here and you can take care of my wound.”

 

If d’Artagnan was surprised by his friend’s acquiescence, he made no mention of it, his body’s strength depleted and his muscles shaking as nausea flared from the intensity of his pain. Aramis practically dragged the Gascon’s body the remaining distance and then lowered him carefully onto the settee, the young man collapsing gratefully against its back. His face shone with a fine layer of sweat and his breaths sawed in and out of his chest loudly as he dealt with the effects of his exertion. He was unaware that Aramis left his side for a few brief moments, returning with a damp cloth which he used to wipe his friend’s face. Next, he shook out one of the blankets and covered d’Artagnan’s still trembling body, and then waited patiently for the injured man to recover.

 

It took several minutes, but eventually d’Artagnan opened his eyes and met the concerned gaze of his friend. “Maybe not one of my better ideas,” he admitted.

 

“Mmm,” Aramis hummed and then handed him a cup of water which the young man gratefully drained. Handing back the empty container, the Gascon’s eyes drifted meaningfully to his friend’s arm. “Fine,” the medic relented, realizing that the young man would not rest until the bandage had been changed. The medic rose and collected the supplies they’d need and placed them all within easy reach before baring his upper arm. Aramis was pleased to see that d’Artagnan had steadied and his hands no longer shook as they carefully unwound the soiled linen.

 

When the wound was revealed, the Gascon extended a hand and Aramis gave him a wet cloth with which to clean it. Craning his head to have a look, he was unsurprised when d’Artagnan gave him the answer he’d been seeking, “It looks good so far; no signs of infection.” The medic gave a soft grunt in reply and allowed his friend to finish, waiting until the young man had rewrapped his arm with a fresh bandage. When they’d finished, Aramis quietly began to clean up, observantly noting how the young man had again reclined in the settee and allowed his eyes to close. By the time that the medic had finished, d’Artagnan was snoring softly, pulling a fond smile from Aramis who murmured, “Sleep well, my friend.” 

* * *

Porthos had kept a close watch on Athos as they’d completed the remainder of their journey uneventfully, the attack from earlier providing them with more excitement than they’d bargained for. The older man’s expression remained neutral but it was clear from the stiff set of his back and shoulders that the wound was paining him, and the large man made a silent promise that he would get his friend back to the safety of the Barnet house as quickly as possible.

 

The town they entered was tiny, more a hamlet than anything else, but it possessed the obligatory tavern, available to meet the needs of locals and visitors alike and it was their agreed-upon meeting place. When they stopped outside the building, Porthos dismounted smoothly and stepped forward nonchalantly to steady his friend, should the need arise. Athos managed to give him a glare but didn’t shake Porthos’ hand away when swayed as he stood and gained his equilibrium after dismounting.

 

Athos gave a discreet dip of his head and Porthos’ hand dropped away, understanding the dual meaning of the older man’s actions which both thanked him and let him know that he was ready to stand on his own. The large man took both sets of reins and tied their horses before returning to Athos’ side and following him inside the tavern. They took a moment to allow their eyes to adjust the dreary interior before casually observing the tavern’s occupants as they made their way to a corner table. As the barmaid approached to take their order, a nervous looking man caught Porthos’ eye and the Musketeer moved calmly away from the table, Athos giving the woman a polite nod of dismissal as he followed in his friend’s wake.

 

The man who’d caught Porthos’ attention seemed anxious and he kept throwing nervous glances behind him as he made his way to a side door. As he passed through it, the large Musketeer was only a step behind him and caught the door before it had fully closed, waiting a moment for Athos to catch up before stepping back outside. Their quarry was pressed against the side of the building and had obviously been waiting for them, his eyes darting around furtively before landing on their pauldrons and giving a short huff of relief. “’Bout time you showed up; I was expectin’ you yesterday.”

 

Athos eyed the mousy looking man with barely hidden disdain as he replied, “The journey here was difficult and we were unavoidably delayed.”

 

The man seemed uninterested in their explanation as he said, “I’ve had my own _difficulties_. Now I just want to get the package and be gone.”

 

“You’ll forgive us if we verify your identify first,” Athos stated, uncaring about whether or not the man in front of him took offense.

 

With a huff, the man reached inside his doublet and pulled out a small piece of parchment which he handed to Athos, the Musketeer unrolling it and confirming the identity of the courier. With difficulty, he forced his right hand into his own doublet and retrieved the pouch they had carried from Paris, placing it into the man’s hand to have it fairly snatched away. As the courier began to turn away from them, he paused and faced them again as he advised, “There’s been men after this and I saw a group of them ride out this morning to intercept you.”

 

“They’ve already been dealt with,” Porthos stated confidently.

 

The courier’s eyes widened as he said, “Really, I didn’t think you’d be able to deal with that many men on your own, but I guess what they say about Musketeers is true.”

 

Preparing to leave again, he was stopped a second time by Athos’ hand on his shoulder, “How many men did you see?”

 

The courier shrugged dismissively as he answered, “Almost a dozen.” With those words, he slipped from the Musketeer’s grip and moved hurriedly away, no doubt planning to depart immediately in order to complete his portion of the mission.

 

Porthos’ gaze turned to his friend as he said, “We only fought four men. You don’t think?”

 

Athos gave a terse nod as he led the way back to their horses, “With our luck, where else would they be.” By the time they’d reached the animals, they were nearly running, panicked thoughts about what their friends might be facing pushing them to hurry and be quickly on their way.

* * *

Aramis once more found himself with nothing to do, with d’Artagnan still resting comfortably on the settee and Monsieur Barnet and his son out tending to their farm. He knew that the lady of the house was puttering around in the kitchen but he was loathe to spend any more time with the disagreeable woman than necessary, and he flinched, chastising himself for the uncharitable thought. Sighing, his eyes landed on the discarded washbasin and he smiled brightly, thinking he might be able to redeem himself somewhat by cleaning it and returning it to the taciturn Madame Barnet. With a slight spring in his step, he dressed in his outer layers and carried the basin outside, shuddering momentarily against the cold, his body not yet fully recovered from its traumas of the prior day.

 

He followed the path through the snow to the well and placed the basin on the ground, turning the crank that would deposit the bucket into the water below. When he heard the telltale splash and felt the added pressure of a full bucket hanging on the rope, he began to hoist it up, already looking forward to returning to the warmth of the house. He detached the bucket from its hook, bending over to pour some of the water into the basin so he could give it a proper wash, never registering the steps that approached behind him or the man who brought a pistol butt down hard on the back of his head. Aramis fell limply to the ground, the bucket slipping from his hands to spill its contents across the ground, the water freezing almost immediately into ice. With a look of satisfaction, the man holstered his pistol and walked away, leaving the insensate Musketeer to lay where he’d fallen.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He kept the secret from everyone including his three closest friends, understanding that the knowledge he now held was of the type to separate men from their heads.

d’Artagnan was roused from his sleep by the sound of many sets of booted feet stomping near the doorway, and he’d just managed to open his eyes when he found himself face to face with a rough looking man who was forcing a pistol underneath his chin. Despite his compromised position, the Gascon glared back at the man, not yet having had enough time to comprehend the situation or properly wake, but recognizing the immediacy of the threat before him.

 

“He a Musketeer, too?” the man asked, throwing the question over his shoulder and d’Artagnan’s gaze shifted to see a group of men close to the door, one of whom was clutching a boy’s shoulders and wearing a look of fear on his face. The man stood out from the rest and the Gascon realized that he was not part of the group who’d invaded the house. With a look of regret, the man’s eyes drifted to d’Artagnan’s for a moment before he nodded his head, giving his attacker the answer he’d been waiting for.

 

With a nudge of the pistol beneath his chin, the Gascon’s attention was drawn back and he met the man’s gaze with a fierce stare, ignoring the steadily rising pounding of his head as adrenaline flooded his body. “Where is it?” the man demanded.

 

“Where’s what?” d’Artagnan replied, gritting his teeth against the uncomfortable position in which he was forced to hold his head.

 

The man in front of him leaned back for a moment, pulling the pistol away, and the Gascon experienced a brief moment of relief before he was backhanded, the blow snapping his head to one side and making the room blur. As he forced himself to straighten in his seat, he blinked away the involuntary tears that had sprung to his eyes and fixed his attacker with a scowl. Speaking deliberately and slowly, he said, “I don’t know what you want, but attacking a Musketeer is a good way to find yourself facing a hangman’s noose.”

 

The man’s face turned ugly and he loosed a fist in the direction of the Gascon’s torso before the young man could even register the motion, the strike to his chest doubling him over in pain as he struggled to regain his breath. It seemed that his aggressor was impatient, though, and he pulled d’Artagnan upright by entangling his fingers in the young man’s hair and, for several seconds, the Gascon glared at him while he panted for air.

 

“Enough!” a voice spoke from several feet away, one of the men by the door stepping forward to take charge. d’Artagnan’s head was roughly released and it became clear that this new threat was the group’s leader, if the others’ reactions were anything to go by. The man strode closer and the Gascon’s previous aggressor gave way, the leader examining the Musketeer closely. “You believe you’ll be able to refuse us?” the man questioned.

 

d’Artagnan stuck his chin out defiantly as he confirmed, “I’ve dealt with far worse than you and survived.”

 

The leader grinned menacingly as he nodded in understanding, holding the Gascon’s gaze for a moment before turning back to the others and motioning towards the boy. Barnet seemed to understand the man’s intention moments before it happened, but was too late to stop having Andre ripped from his hold. “No,” he cried, the desperation of a father’s pain obvious in his tone. “Please.”

 

The man who now held Andre pulled him closer to his chest, placing a pistol to the boy’s head as the child trembled with fear. “Stop,” d’Artagnan commanded, uncaring about his own life and unwilling to risk an innocent child’s. “I’ll tell you what you want to know, but you must promise that no harm will come to this family.” He hadn’t been formally introduced to his hosts but knew that he was looking at them now, and he would do everything in his power to ensure they didn’t suffer for their act of kindness in taking himself and the others in.

 

The leader gave his other man a nod and the pistol was lowered from Andre’s head. The boy was allowed to return to his father’s arms and Barnet hugged him closely in a vain attempt to protect him from further harm. “So, where is it?” the man prompted.

 

Needing to get the men away from Barnet and his son, d’Artagnan gambled as he replied, “In the barn. We hid it there as soon as we arrived, but you’ll never find it without my help.”

 

The leader’s face split in another mirthless grin as he motioned toward the door, “After you.”

 

The Gascon set his jaw as he inched forward on the settee, positioning himself at its edge as he prepared to stand. With a deep breath, he pushed off the seat, managing to gain his feet and balancing with the majority of his weight on his right leg. The leader was watching him closely and had realized that his captive was injured, but he didn’t do anything to assist. Clamping his mouth firmly closed, d’Artagnan took a first stuttering step towards his boots and was stopped right away by a hand on his shoulder. Looking up at the man’s face, he saw the head shake and the hand that was pointing towards the door. Swallowing down his anger, he said, “Surely you don’t expect me to go outside without my boots.”

 

The leader merely shrugged and inclined his head towards Andre, making his threat against the boy clear without speaking a word. With a low huff, d’Artagnan changed direction and stumbled toward the door, the men in front of him parting and following in behind as he exited into the snow. As the chilled air touched his skin, he was grateful for his earlier insistence on getting dressed so he at least had his shirt, breeches and stockings to protect against the cold. Still, it took only seconds for him to start shivering as he pushed resolutely onward, feeling the fire in his knee with every awkward, hobbling step he took. He spared a glance ahead to orient himself and then returned his gaze to the ground, the effort of keeping his head up too much for his battered body. Despite the cold, he could feel sweat beading on his brow as he pushed himself to continue moving, doing his best to ignore the numerous aches that vied for his attention.

 

A few steps more had him passing within a few feet of the well, and he spared a look over, shocked to see a still form crumpled beside it. “Aramis,” he gasped, rocking in the direction of his friend before being roughly pushed away, and he stopped to glare at the man who blocked him from checking on the Musketeer. He stood firm for a moment as he asked, “Is he alive?”

 

The man remained quiet and sneered as he gave the Gascon another push, almost brining him to the ground as he fought to keep a hold on his tenuous balance. Glaring venomously at the man, d’Artagnan forced himself to walk, every movement of his injured leg whitening his vision as the raw nerves burned with pain. He was vaguely aware that he was panting, his ribs now clamoring for attention as well as he steadfastly continued forward. d’Artagnan silently cursed the callousness of these men, leaving Aramis outside to freeze in the cold and taking pleasure in his pain as they smirked at his laboured stride.

 

His vision was beginning to tunnel and he knew that he would soon pass out, the demands on his weakened body too great for his mind to overcome with willpower alone. Grunting as he stumbled he forced himself to take another step and then stopped, waiting for the ground to cease its unnatural swaying beneath him. The air around him seemed too thin and he couldn’t catch his breath and, as he lifted his weighty head up, he swore he noticed something moving ahead. Then the darkness won and he began to fall, distantly registering the sound of a shot before his last threads of consciousness slipped away. 

* * *

The cold somehow cut through the fog that gripped him, teasing him slowly back to consciousness and flooding his senses with pain. It wasn’t the first time he’d been struck on the head, but experience didn’t make it any easier; if anything, it brought with it the dreaded knowledge of what was to come. The double vision, agonizing headache, dizziness and nausea all hallmarks of a concussed brain, and Aramis was becoming aware of each symptom as it registered in his muddled mind.

 

As he pried open his eyelids, he was met by nothing but white and, after he slowly opened them further, the sight became more confusing as things titled alarmingly. He snapped his eyes quickly closed, hoping to stave off the sick feeling in his stomach as his mind struggled to process what had happened. Cautiously opening his eyes again, he became aware of the cold pressing against his cheek and how it was slowly seeping through his clothes and chilling the rest of his body, making him shiver and gasp in pain as his fragile skull was jarred. Somehow, he managed to get a message from his brain to his hand and he found himself slowly scrabbling at the ground beneath him and pushing himself up, his head hanging from his neck for several long moments as his vision darkened.

 

Once the world around him stilled, he opened eyes that he didn’t remember closing and found himself outside, next to the well, and the memory of going outside to wash Madame Barnet’ basin slowly returned to him and he wondered how he’d ended up lying in the snow instead. Reaching a hand to the back of his head, he gingerly touched the spot that throbbed in time with his heart, pulling his probing fingers away almost at once at the sharp spike of pain that resulted. Dropping his hand back down to his side, he looked around and noted the number of boot prints in the snow, the evidence he saw suggesting the presence of several men.

 

As he lay there, half-propped against the side of the well, the sound of voices reached his ears and his gaze drifted toward the house. He blinked several times to clear his vision and was shocked to recognize d’Artagnan’s limping form struggling to walk. Behind him, another man followed and Aramis’ instincts warned that something was very wrong. Without hesitation, he laid back down, forcing himself to keep his eyes nearly closed as he listened intently to understand what was happening.

 

It took all of his willpower to remain still when he heard d’Artagnan’s angry cry, the young man obviously concerned when he spotted the medic lying in the snow. Despite his protests, the Gascon was forced to continue and, even from that distance, Aramis could tell that the young man wouldn’t be able to stay on his feet for much longer. Behind the boy trailed a group of four men; not wonderful odds considering both he and the Gascon were hurt and unarmed, but it would be best if he made a move now before the cold sapped his strength any further.

 

As soon as the last man had passed by his position, everyone’s attention firmly on the hobbling Musketeer, Aramis carefully pushed himself up, not pausing in a seated position but forcing himself all the way to his feet instead. The rush of light-headedness made his vision narrow and he coached himself to breath evenly until the feeling eased, knowing he had only a few precious seconds before someone noticed his presence. Releasing his hold on the well, he took a moment to confirm his ability to stand on his own and identified his two targets at the back of the group, moving toward them at once before he could second-guess himself.

 

His focus narrowed on the first man he intended to attack, and he slipped behind the man swiftly and with as much grace as his throbbing head would allow, reaching his left hand around the man’s side to grip his pistol and slide it free. Before his target could fully spin around to look behind him, Aramis had raised the pistol and brought it down in a sideways strike against the man’s temple, dropping him like a stone. With a surety that was born of experience, the marksman tossed the pistol from his left to his right hand, raising it immediately to take aim at the man on his right, releasing the shot and felling him as well.

 

The sound of the pistol’s discharge echoed in his sore head and his balance wavered, bringing him down to the ground where he managed to catch himself on his hands. As he kneeled in the snow, he forced himself to bring his head up. His wavering vision identified the outline of two more men ahead of him and he vaguely wondered where d’Artagnan had disappeared to before he had to drop his head again. He stayed that way for several long seconds, panting against the unrelenting pain in his skull and flinching with the sound of more shots, praying that none of them were aimed at him or the Gascon. Reality blurred then and he had no idea how much time had passed when he felt a warm, calloused hand on the nape of his neck, and heard Porthos’ comforting baritone as he asked, “Aramis, can you stand?”

 

Aramis had tried to nod but wasn’t certain he’d managed it, the action quickly aborted and replaced by a heartfelt moan. Porthos had gently lifted him to his feet and ducked underneath one arm, manoeuvering the marksman out of the cold, and the next sensation he’d felt was the warm air on his skin as he was deposited by the fire. Time skipped again and at some point he’d been undressed and wrapped in a warm blanket, and when he opened his eyes he found himself slumped on the settee, using Porthos’ shoulder as a pillow. The realization pulled a smile of contentment from him until he remembered some of what had transpired earlier, and he forced himself to sit up straighter until he could see the rest of the room. He spotted Athos back on the floor near the fireplace and, beside him, sleeping as well, was d’Artagnan, the boy’s face smooth and relaxed. The sight was enough to assure him that everything was alright, and Aramis closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off once more. 

* * *

Two days later found the Musketeers back in the sitting room, this time all of them up off the floor and lounging in the various seats available to them, the existing furniture supplemented by an additional chair from the kitchen. The first hours after returning to the Barnet farm had been tense, with Porthos and Athos arriving in time to see Aramis’ heroic attack on the men who’d come seeking the same package that had been earlier passed off to the courier. Porthos would later call the marksman’s actions foolhardy, especially since the man could barely see straight let alone stay on his feet, but the words were spoken with an underlying hint of pride and Aramis knew his friend was only expressing concern over his wellbeing.

 

Following the marksman’s actions, Porthos and Athos had moved in to dispatch the two remaining men, needing to deal with them quickly as the older Musketeer was flagging due to his earlier injury. Despite his deteriorating health, the sight of their two friends collapsing had given Athos enough motivation to stay on his feet until everyone was safe. Aramis’ shot had drawn the attention of the last two men who’d been left to guard Barnet and his son and Porthos had dealt with one while, surprisingly, Madame Barnet had emerged from her hiding spot in the back of the house to handle the other, hefting an iron skillet with a prowess that belied her advancing age. The final count had revealed six attackers at the house and Athos thanked God for the courier’s exaggeration when the man had suggested there were nearly a dozen in total; still, the Musketeers had faced ten that day.

 

For some reason the old woman’s attitude towards them turned at that point and she’d helped Porthos, the only somewhat able-bodied Musketeer remaining, in tending the others’ injuries. Remarkably, Athos was the one in most dire need of care, the amount of blood he’d lost by that point making the closure of his wound critical, and Porthos had placed the newest batch of stitches, adding another scar to his friend’s collection. d’Artagnan had collected a few more bruises and only needed to have the swelling in his knee addressed after walking on it too much. Similarly, Aramis’ head revealed a painful knot and he was encouraged to rest since there was nothing more to be done other than managing his pain, something that the Gascon seemed to have taken responsibility for whenever Porthos was absent from the room. Athos had smirked each time he watched the young man pressing one of the foul pain draughts on Aramis and it wasn’t until the second day when the marksman realized that this was the retribution d’Artagnan had been promised by Athos when the older man had coaxed his protégé into drinking his too sweet tea.

 

Overall, the men were recovering well and were simply in dire need of a few days’ rest and proper food before they attempted the trip back to Paris. Both needs had been generously taken care of by the Barnets, the story emerging afterwards about Phillipe’s older brother who’d been a soldier for a time, but had been lost during a battle, his regiment unable to return his remains for a proper burial. It had been this event that had colored the elder Barnet’s attitude towards soldiers but, after seeing the great care the Musketeers showed one another, the woman had begun to think differently, allowing herself to believe that her son had had similar brothers-in-arms with whom he’d served and who would have laid him to rest when his family could not. The resulting shift had Madame Barnet graciously cooking and baking for them, and Aramis had even managed to charm a smile from the woman when he’d finally been able to present her with the freshly scrubbed washbasin.

 

Earlier that evening, they’d shared a pleasant meal with the family before the Barnets had retreated to their rooms, allowing the Musketeers to continue to occupy the sitting area. Even though they could now easily move to the bedroom they’d been offered when they’d first arrived, the space had become comfortable and none of them minded the makeshift pallets on the floor. With their bellies full and their bodies warmed by the fire, the men sat in companionable silence as they shared a bottle of wine. It was d’Artagnan who finally broke the stillness, clearing his throat as he prepared to speak, “You know, I wasn’t sure I’d survive after the snow carried me away.”

 

Athos’ face clouded at the memory of the avalanche, easily recalling the fear he’d felt when he discovered the Gascon’s fate. Aramis’ expression turned sombre as well, as he recounted the overwhelming feeling of guilt at not having warned the young man in time. Only Porthos didn’t react, his demeanour calm and relaxed as he replied, “Surely you knew we were searching for you.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded slowly as he tried to explain, “I did…” He trailed off for a moment as he searched for the right words, “It was just so very confusing and the snow does something to you. I knew that I had to stay calm, but the only thing I could think of at first was that all of you might have been swept away as well, leaving no one to look for me. Then, after a while, I stopped caring and it was so very hard to stay awake; it was almost easier to let go.” The Gascon’s revelation stunned his friends but before any of them could protest, the young man continued. “I’d been thinking a lot that day – about my birthday – and I suppose I was resigned to this year being the last.”

 

Aramis’ face bore a look of puzzlement as he asked, “What do you mean, d’Artagnan? When was your birthday?”

 

The Gascon’s expression was sheepish as he answered, face turned down towards his glass, “It’s today, actually.”

 

The three men traded identical looks of confusion, but it was Athos who asked, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

 

d’Artagnan gave a one-sided shrug, still mindful of his broken ribs, “It seemed unimportant in comparison to the mission; our days were challenging enough as it was and I didn’t want to say anything that would make you feel obligated to celebrate.”

 

Another round of silent communication passed around the room, the three Musketeers reaching the same conclusion, which Aramis voiced, “d’Artagnan, the day of your birth is not an obligation and it would be our privilege to celebrate it with you and, if you will allow it, we will do so properly when we return to Paris.” Looking at the other men, the marksman saw Porthos and Athos nodding in agreement, d’Artagnan’s expression brightening in reply.

 

Before the Gascon could say anything, Porthos interjected, reaching behind him to present a parcel wrapped in plain, brown paper. “Since it’s your birthday, maybe this can be your first gift.” He stood and crossed the few steps to where d’Artagnan sat on the settee and then returned to his chair as the young man looked at the package in surprise. “Come on, then, unwrap it already,” the large man urged, a ghost of a smile on his face.

 

Handing his wine glass to Athos, the Gascon pulled apart the paper, revealing a pair of deep brown leather gloves. As the young man raised his eyes to Porthos, the larger man explained, “You lost one of yours in the snow and it’s too cold to do without, so I made those for you.”

 

Athos and Aramis were both admiring the gloves as d’Artagnan slipped them on, finding the fit to be perfect and the supple leather conforming flawlessly to the shape of his hands. “Porthos, they’re incredible,” the Gascon breathed out, in awe of his friend’s gift.

 

Aramis echoed the young man’s sentiment as he asked, “Porthos, I had no idea you possessed such skill.”

 

It was the larger man’s turn to look embarrassed as he tried to downplay what he’d done and he shrugged carelessly as he said, “It was nothin’.”

 

“No,” Athos countered, noting the precise stitching, “these are the work of a fine craftsman. How did you manage it?”

 

Beaming at his friends’ praise, Porthos admitted, “We didn’t have much in the Court, but there were always scraps of leather to be had, no one ever throwing anything out since it could be useful. One of the women could make anything – slippers and gloves mostly – and she taught me. That way I could make them for the children so they’d be able to stand the winters.” Seeing his friends’ curious eyes still on him, he continued, “Barnet had some leather in the barn and I saw it there on the first day. I remembered that d’Artagnan had lost a glove and got the idea then to make him a new pair.”

 

Swallowing thickly with gratitude shining in his eyes, d’Artagnan spoke, “Thank you, Porthos, I’ve never had a finer pair.” The large man murmured a low acknowledgement and it was clear that he’d prefer that their attention was elsewhere. Coming to his aid, Aramis lifted his glass as he toasted, “Happy birthday, d’Artagnan.”

 

Handing the Gascon’s glass back to him, Athos added, “Many happy returns, brother.” d’Artagnan drank from his glass, his face flushed and his body warm, comforted by the knowledge that regardless of how many birthdays awaited him, he would celebrate every one that he could with these men.

* * *

_ Epilogue _

 

He could never explain what had made him look, able to count on one hand the few times that he’d directly disobeyed one of Treville’s orders. Nestled inside had been a ring, obviously belonging to a woman from its shape and size, and Athos had no difficulty connecting it to its owner. He’d drawn the pouch closed immediately and slipped it into his doublet, deeply troubled by his discovery. He kept the secret from everyone including his three closest friends, understanding that the knowledge he now held was of the type to separate men from their heads. Resolving that no one would ever be privy to the information he possessed, he quelled his curiosity and would not allow himself to speculate about the reasons that their Queen would be sending such a recognizable piece of her jewellery to a courier located so close to the border they shared with the Spanish Netherlands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who took the time to read, comment and leave kudos on this story. As you know, this was a birthday fic for AZGirl who asked for the following: snow, either Athos' or d'Artagnan's birthday, the "kitchen sink", and one of the men - not Aramis - having a hidden talent. Hope I managed to fit everything in and that you enjoyed. Also, thanks to DebbieF who came up with Athos' words to d'Artagnan to get him to drink his too sweet tea, and which came back in this chapter to haunt poor Aramis.
> 
> Till next time!


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